


Red Sea

by half_life



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/pseuds/half_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray." </em> AFFC, chapter 18 </p><p>To reave, to rule: Euron was born to both. He finds an unexpected treasure that promises to help him obtain all he desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this two years ago in response to a kink meme prompt, but never posted it. Apologies to the prompter, both for the lateness of the fic and the fact that I can't even find the original post. It was something along the lines of _"Jon is sold into slavery after recovering from the stabbing in ADWD and purchased by Euron."_ Euron seems to me to be quite mad, in a visceral, charismatic kind of way, so just to repeat the warning: there will be violence and non-con in an upcoming chapter or two. I hope it's consistent with his book-persona, but I wonder if the show version will be less cruel since we've already seen so much of that with Ramsay. Regardless I can't wait to see the show interpretation. For the record, the Jon character is show Jon (ie ~20 years old, not 15).

Amid sand and oil Euron finds him: a pretty Stark now a slave. His arms are bound at his back but he stands straight and angry upon the dais, a contrast to the hollow-eyed misery of the other myriad unfortunates for sale. The look is unmistakable, even from this distance. Euron has parleyed with the cursed Wolves before, battled against them when words failed. If his eye is true, if he's really found a Stark so far from Winterfell, then Euron knows why the ocean called him away from the Seastone Chair. Some named him foolish, leaving while Westeros warred. It was lunacy, they said, much like his talk of liquid fire and prophecy and dragons. Cowards and liars all, and no one spoke such treachery for long. Now he would return triumphant again, a King with full coffers and a hated enemy at his feet.

His men hover at the periphery of the marketplace, some almost beyond the edge of his vision, but being half-sighted has its advantages. He’s acutely attuned in other ways, to the waves and the wind and the smell of drowned flesh. And right now, he knows his men are sharp axes waiting to fall; it’s been days since they razed the last village, and Euron can feel the bloodlust singing in their veins. The Storm God, too, is hungry, lurking. He wants pain and death and the screams of the unworthy.

 _Soon_ , Euron whispers to him, _soon_ , and as he starts to push through the crowd he thinks he hears the sea breeze sighing in response.

“A cast-off from the Night's Watch,” a fat auctioneer tells him when Euron asks. His bare belly is covered with spiralling red tattoos. They remind Euron of a blood-washed tide. “They normally behead their traitors, but in this economy…”

They walk past the other slaves on offer – men, women, children, starved and scared – and finally stop at the end of the line where the object of Euron’s interest stands. At his signal a guard grabs a fistful of the young man’s hair and shoves him to the ground. Euron smiles, because even from his knees, the boy manages to look haughty, staring straight ahead through a tumble of black curls. Though his chest is hairless, he has a short, well-groomed beard, no doubt trimmed for his presentation today. He's not of an age to the Starks who killed Euron’s kin, but he's also not a child by any measure. He's battle-lean and proud, the furious set to his jaw recalling that of his elders.

He will serve.

“He’d be a good worker,” the auctioneer advises him. “Strong back and arms. Whatever those wounds are on his chest and belly, they seem to have healed. Judging by the amount of fight in him, they certainly haven't affected his strength.”

Euron reaches out to trail a hand over a pale shoulder. The boy is polished to a silverfish-gleam, an oily glamour applied to all the slaves on sale today. It's false and unnecessary. Nothing a bit of salt won’t get rid of.

The auctioneer smiles slyly, thinking he knows Euron’s mind. As if any man could.

“Ah, yes. He’s a good looking lad. Someone’s had a go at his face there, but even those scratches and scars are pretty, yes? No doubt a discerning buyer could find other uses for him. I’ve kept him safe from my men, but my wife and her maids can attest to his skill with his tongue.” He spreads his fat hands with a shrug. “I wanted to keep him rested for the sale, but what can I say? I cannot refuse my woman anything.”

 _Weak. Craven._ Women are for fucking and whelping, nothing more. Euron grits his teeth but allows the man to lean in to whisper conspiratorially.

“And he was more than willing, given the proper motivation. Pain doesn’t work so well with the black brothers. Their nerves are ruined by frost.”

That’s untrue, Euron knows it to be. He’s made all manner of men scream and beg.

“No, no, you have to be creative with slaves like this,” the fat man continues. He’s on Euron’s blind side, and he senses the man turn, doubtless checking no one is nearby to overhear.

“They can’t forget their vows to protect, you see. With this one, I threatened to kill my wife’s little serving girl if he didn’t obey. My wife will forgive me eventually, I think. I can buy her dozens of slave boys for what he’ll fetch. He’s noble-born, you understand,” the man says. “The way he speaks and moves - the black brothers wouldn’t tell me the truth of it, but I have an eye for this sort of thing. Besides, he came with a fancy sword. Those stingy bastards weren’t going to give it up, but I paid good coin for it.” He grins through gold teeth and pats the blade on his left hip.

Euron starts at the sight. It’s a Valyrian sword; he can smell it. The pommel is a white wolf.

Euron’s blood roars. They don’t know what they have in their hands, these slavers. If he wasn’t quite sure before, the wolf sigil confirms it. Euron reaches for the young man, gripping his throat lightly and tipping his chin back with his thumb. There's recognition in the dark eyes that lift to lock with Euron's, an anger that is ice-wrought and burning.

“Stark,” Euron says softly. "Are you ready to pay your family’s debt to my kin? Are you ready to be sacrificed to my God?”

“Greyjoy,” is the hissed response, “You’ll pay yours as well.” Then the youth spits, aiming square and true at Euron’s only eye. The auctioneer squeaks in horror, but Euron only wipes his eye and laughs.

“I see you know me boy, though we've never met. Has your father told you tales?" He tightens his grip on the youth's throat. _"They're all true."_

The lad closes his eyes at that and his throat convulses under Euron’s fingers. Euron releases him, and turns back to the auctioneer.

“He’s mine,” Euron says.

“Well, that is…that would be highly irregular. He must go to auction, those are the rules," the man demurs. “Unless you were to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Euron allows himself a wide grin. “Ah, that I will, my fat friend. That I will. Only the highest price will be paid. I insist.”

“Yes? And what price would that be?”

“The iron one, of course,” Euron purrs.

The elderly, the obese, the frightened – their blood always pulses harder and faster than other men when the great vessels are split. This one is no exception, and Euron has the Valyrian blade buried deep in the man’s vast belly before he would have even noticed the weight lifted from his hip. It gushes out when he withdraws the sword, a hot, familiar baptism. The man drops, mouth opening and closing like a fish on a salty deck.

The audience is very quiet. Euron gazes at them, these waiting sacrifices, and slowly wipes his thumb down his own cheek. He turns back to his new acquisition, still kneeling, pale and silent as the crowd. He gently draws the blood dipped thumb across the young man’s soft mouth, already red but now obscenely so. The boy cries out and wrenches his head away in disgust, and the act shocks the crowd into action as well: they suddenly surge and wail. It's far too late to escape now though. His men are waiting with arrow and blade. They take to their task with silent glee, too long without release. It is a massacre, pure and simple. Not evil, or madness, though some would call it so out of fear of the truth. No, this fervent red mass of pain is what lies in the depths of the soul of every man.

Euron just chooses to unleash it.

A sharp blow with the pommel of the wolf-sword is enough to subdue his charge, and Euron slings the unconscious weight easily over his shoulder. He side-steps a fleeing woman, almost dropping his burden, only to roar with laugher as she is speared from behind. Blood streaks the cobblestones already, and the screams are high pitched and wonderful, like music. His ship _Silence_ looms on the horizon, tall and lovely, and smoke billows across his path as he walks towards her, towards the sea.

The empty eyes of the black Iron Maiden welcome Euron home.


	2. Chapter 2

His name is Jon Snow.

That’s what the maester tells him. A bastard, obviously, and at first Euron is wild. He lashes the lad just for that, his men holding him down on the deck so Euron can paint his back with sharp red lines. Snow doesn’t scream, disappointingly. He just grunts, but his body arches beautifully with each stroke. After a time Euron’s whipping arm begins to ache and that’s when he finally hears Maester Erich's voice. The old man is the only one of the crew able to speak and now he’s hoarse from shouting. _If His Grace would allow him to finish,_ he says, Jon Snow is not just any northern bastard. He’s Eddard Stark’s bastard, his only surviving son, and recently deposed Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, if the maester’s not mistaken.

Yes, Euron can believe it. Jon Snow looks young for a leader of such an ancient order but Euron was captain of a ship before he even grew his first beard. Besides, there's graveness to this one, a quiet authority.

Snow raises himself up on shaking elbows and spits out blood. He’s bitten through his lip to keep from crying out. When he lifts his head to stare up at Euron through damp threads of hair, it's there in his eyes again, that deep, intense hatred. The purity of it is enough to make the maester take a step back, but Euron feels drawn in. There’s power in Snow, dark and alluring and hidden to most men.

_If it could be bound or harnessed somehow-_

The familiar dry cough of his first mate makes Euron break the stare. Looking over his shoulder, he can see that the news he has made a Stark bastard captive has not escaped his crew. Many of them lost limb and kin to a Stark blade all those years ago and the need for revenge burns bright in their worn faces. It does in Euron too, although truthfully he could care little for the deaths of his nephews. No, it's the remembered shame of the defeat itself that fuels his passion. That, and something else now, a competing lust coiling in Euron’s spine which will just have to wait.

 _Snow may not have his father's name, but he has his blood_ , Euron thinks, and for crew and kingdom it will be enough. Stark’s son will pay.

He sets about it immediately, before they even cast off from the port. Euron has a special skill for inflicting torment. Dignity, he knows, is a man’s first defence, and so they strip Snow of it by tying him to the mast like the carved maiden on the prow. Euron himself sees to it with a method of his own devising. There’s an art to it, binding a captive, balancing restriction and pain against the risk of permanent damage. He bids his men pull Snow’s arms back around the mast until he grimaces, tying his elbows and wrists there. The remainder of the rope Euron weighs in his hands, judging, then he takes his time winding it tight about Snow’s chest, belly and hips. He loops it eight times around body and mast all told, and the final length he threads between Snows thighs. Euron palms him there, cock soft and vulnerable, and Snow’s breath hitches, eyes wide. The watching crew laugh, one of the few guttural noises any of them can make, and Euron keeps at it, gently cupping the bastard and pumping softly. Several moments pass and then despite his discomfort, the youth is hardening in his hand. It makes Euron smile. Snow is only a young man after all.

“Stop.” It's a hoarse command. It amuses Euron that the bastard thinks he can issue them here.

“This isn't the Wall, Jon Snow. This is my ship. The men are mine. The women are mine." Euron squeezes Snow's cock harder and leers. "And _you_ are mine, now, to do with as I wish. You may as well enjoy this lad. It will be the last piece of pleasure you get.”

Snow’s eyes flash and the fact that little bastard gets him in the eye _again_ with his spit is surprising. It’s bloodstained and stinging this time, and Euron backhands him hard for it, cursing. He clears his eye with the same hand, only to see a small smile on Snow’s face, like he thinks he’s won something.

He has no idea.

Euron wrenches the rope between his legs up high and the young man gasps. It’s such a sweet sound. He makes it again as Euron draws the rope cruelly hard against his groin over his left shoulder and fastens it to his arms behind him. He’s lovely as he shifts and writhes, only making it worse, mouth parting on a broken groan.

“Aye, struggle harder, boy. The kraken’s tentacles only grip tighter.”

He leans in to lick a long line from the hollow of Snow’s neck up to his jaw, and that finally stills him. His eyes are huge and dark when Euron pulls away.

They celebrate the day’s victory with meat and ale, toasting to the illegitimate heir of the north, who they leave tied to the mast for the rest of the night and the next day. Whenever the boat lurches, cold seawater spray makes Snow cough and reflexively fight his bonds. The sight sets Euron blood racing. Euron’s personal pleasure aside, displaying the bastard on the mast also serves to give the young man an idea of his place. They took at least a dozen extra slaves at the last port, all female, all destined for their own private degradation, but he’s the one subjected to the drooling and pawing of Euron’s crew.

Euron allows it for now, if only because the bastard's responses are so entertaining. He suffers each touch poorly, shuddering with every humiliating pull of his nipples and suggestive tug at his hair, but he doesn’t know what’s to come. He seems oblivious to the comforts Euron’s allowed him thus far: the breeches still slung low across his hips, the water and wine poured down his throat whenever anyone remembers. The elements are too harsh in the end though, and the men too rough with their affection, because Snow can’t be woken even with a sharp slap at nightfall. When Euron calls Maester Erich to examine him, he pronounces Snow quite ill.

“Do you want to keep him, Your Grace?” The old man's voice contains no judgement. He's served the Greyjoys for many years and has averted his eyes from worse.

Euron frowns in frustration. He’s not nearly done with the Stark bastard. He gives a short nod by way of answer.

“Well, if that’s the case, my King, we’d better cut him down. I haven’t had the chance to dress the wounds on his back, and he’ll succumb to exposure if he stays out here much longer.“

Euron nods again, stepping aside as Snow is released and lifted up unresisting by one of the heavy-set crew. The young man's head lolls in oarsman's arms; his body is deathly white apart from the flush in his cheeks.

“Hurry up man," the maester orders. "Bring him inside.”

Euron’s quarters are the biggest on the _Silence_ , naturally, with three chambers and a separate privy. The maester tends to Snow in one of them, and Euron lends him one of the new slave girls to assist. She’s quiet and dutifully efficient. Euron acquired her in Mereen after the sack. He had hoped to meet and treat with the Dragon Queen but by the time he arrived she’d abandoned the city and there was no sign of her three dragons. His brother Victarion had already perished of the bloody flux, and Euron laid waste to the rest. This slave was one of a handful of exquisite women he deemed worthy of saving. In addition, she spoke the common tongue and Valyrian fluently, and would no doubt prove useful. For that reason only, Euron allowed the girl keep her voice and ordered his men to leave her unmolested.

The hours and days drag on, and whenever Euron visits the chamber, Snow is either tossing fitfully or glassy-eyed and delirious. At those times of half-wakefulness, Euron helps to hold him down so the girl Maester Erich calls Missandei can try to give him water. When Snow sleeps, Euron watches the maester and Missandei bathe him with cold salt water and sailors' soap. He stays lax-limbed and naked as they wash him, and Euron can see that dehydration has carved out the young man’s lean muscles even more. On the third day of the confinement he instructs them to shave Snow as well, and it makes him even prettier, so young, with a noble’s smooth skin.

Euron longs to touch it.

The strength of Euron’s desire unnerves him. He’s fucked men in the past, mostly aiming to injure and subjugate. Only a few he actually lusted for, and all of them were silver haired wisps that made him think of Valyria. Jon Snow looks nothing like them; the northern seed is strong. Euron tries to ignore his urges, but one night he finds himself choosing for a bed slave a black-haired girl with a slender waist and a milk-white neck. She’s not beautiful. She doesn’t have Snow's pretty eyes, his full mouth. Her teary face fills him with anger, so he wastes little time in turning her over to fuck her viciously from behind. He kills her afterwards. He hefts her body out the door for the crew to dispose of, and when he returns Missandei comes like a ghost, unbidden, to take the bloodied sheets away.

From then on Euron has trouble sleeping. At the hour of the wolf each night, he hears Snow cry out in the next room. What the lad says, Euron can't discern, but it sounds like a name, chanted. Missandei's voice always seems to come soon after, low and gentle. It's soothing enough to lull even Euron to a few hours rest.

Soon they've been at sea for eight days and after still night under a half moon, the sun dawns red. It's maddeningly damp and all day Euron's eye socket tingles beneath his patch. It's like there's lightning under his skin. At dusk the threatened storm still hasn't come, though they can all hear the roll of thunder in the distance. It grows into an uncomfortably humid night. Euron paces his chambers, barking at the slave girl when she enters to clear his supper plates and sweeps the table clear himself with acute rage.

The maester appears at the loud clatter. “Your Grace?"

Euron waves his hand irritably and sinks into a chair.

Maester Erich nods and sweeps an arm around the girl's waist. "Leave this, Missandei. We'll clear it tomorrow," he says gently. She slips out with a duck of her head and the maester turns back to Euron with a worried frown. "Take another slave tonight, My King,” the old man advises. “It will clear your humours.”

But that night it’s Jon Snow’s body Euron spends over, grinding his cock frantically into the sharp angle of Jon's hip and mouthing at his neck. The young man stirs and tosses his head under him, but doesn’t wake. Euron finally falls into a deep sleep at Snow’s side. When he wakes again, Missandei is already there, cleaning the spilled seed off Snow's skin. She avoids Euron’s gaze.

The next day is warmer still and even the mild-mannered maester is grumbling.

"I thought winter was supposed to be coming," Euron hears him mutter. He's a plump man with a head of thick grey hair and a short beard. He pulls at his sweat darkened collar. Louder, he asks, "When do we reach the Summer Isles, Your Grace? We're running out of fresh water."

Missandei silently enters and Euron beckons her over to refill his cup as he briefly ponders the calculations. They did perhaps take on a few too many slaves at the last stop.

"With this wind, another half-turn of the moon even with the oars. Harrys Harlaw and Asha will meet us there with other supplies." And if not, Euron thinks, a few women could easily be tossed overboard. But Asha will come. She's professed loyalty to him and is an excellent sailor. Judging by raven she sent to him at Astapor, she might beat them there.

Maester Erich looks relieved. He returns to fussing over Snow for a few more moments, touching his forehead and lifting his lids to check his eyes. Finally he places his palm on the lad's chest to feel his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry Your Grace," the man sighs, "There's nothing I more I can do. His sickness is beyond my skills. His skin is still dry; a bad sign. He's fighting it though, so he must be strong. It’s remarkable he’s survived the heat of this fever for so many days, and all without food too. Something else is sustaining him."

At that the maester breaks off, suddenly thoughtful.

“I think he’s been healed before,” he says wonderingly.

Euron pulse spikes. He moves to perch on the other side of the bed and motions the maester to continue.

“These wounds here, here, there,” the old man says, pointing to the scars on Snow’s chest and upper belly. “They should have been fatal. A powerful magic has been wrought here. It’s in him still.”

"As a child, perhaps?" Euron asks. The Starks of old had magic. Wargs they were, a talent thought long lost. But dragons had returned now and Euron can feel the ripples of their presence everywhere. Perhaps the Starks have developed abilities beyond running with their wolves.

"No, Your Grace, I think not. I visited Winterfell every year at Alannys' request until Theon safely reached manhood. I often saw Jon sparring with his brother Robb and I saw no scars upon him then." Maester Erich squints and traces one of the longer scars, as if seeing them for the first time. "No, these wounds happened since then, probably very recently. They're still pink and unfaded."

Euron taps his cup, intrigued. The fire of R’hllor would be strong enough to heal a dying man. The power of ancient Valyria too perhaps, though no one recalls it now. More likely it was a red priest. They seem to be walking Westeros in greater and greater numbers. Old Valyrian power or red fire, either answers another riddle in Euron’s mind. This must be part of what drew him this Stark bastard: the smell of magic and burnt blood.

Euron strokes Snow’s hot cheek. He shifts and moans softly under his hand, and Euron thinks he can sense one of Snow’s fever-dreams. There are just snatches of it: echoes of screams, the snap of frozen bones and the tang of scorched flesh.

“Do you dream of dragons, boy?” Euron whispers. Snow moans once more and throws his head back. A fine sheen of sweat finally breaks upon his brow.

“My King?” the maester calls urgently, “Stand away from him, he’s-“

Jon Snow convulses once, then bolts upright with a low cry. His hands close around Euron’s neck with more energy than Euron would have thought possible, and it’s actually a struggle to prise his fingers away. Euron straddles him and forces Snow’s arms down above his head and, with the maester’s help, lashes his wrists to the iron bedhead. Snow curses loudly and bucks underneath him, wide awake and clear-eyed. He chokes angrily on the cloth gag Euron quickly stuffs into his mouth.

The three of them stand back. Snow gives one more muffled howl of rage, then calms, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Missandei is wide-eyed and the maester clucks worriedly, but Euron only smiles.

That night, he dreams of dragons and a leashed white wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you might be able to see why I couldn't post this to a kink meme - it's too damn long. Also, hi, I don't know anything about distances and sailing times. If any of you have a better idea of how long it might take for a longship with sails plus oars to travel from Astapor to the Summer Isles, feel free to let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon Snow is a picture of fury for the next five days, so must be kept lashed to the cot. Gagged too, most of the time, and Euron thinks it a pity. The lad has such a lovely mouth, and his empty threats and oaths do not trouble him. However, the maester has been set a new and vital task, and he must not be disturbed by the clamour. He labours at the desk, writing scroll after scroll of Euron’s words.

The only time Snow calms is when Missandei tends to him. Mouth unstopped and hands tied in front of him, he can eat and drink and relieve himself, and modesty seems to drive him to perform these tasks without her being forced to help. Sometimes, Euron catches them talking together in soft tones. He allows it. She is harmless, and their bond will serve a purpose.

“I think his mind has been damaged, my King,” Maester Erich remarks as they sit down to a meagre meal. “To have such a high fever for so long…he’s behaving like a mad man. Mayhap he cannot remember himself, or how he came to be here.”

“No,” Missandei murmurs. She’s appeared with the ale, and it’s a surprise to hear her speak. She seems to catch herself and gasps.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I should not have spoken.”

“Go on girl,” Euron says, curious.

Head bowed, she continues, “He knows himself. He’s told me of his home, his family, and how he was betrayed and sold.” She looks up through her lashes, eyes hardening. “He remembers _everything_.”

 _Ah_. So he recalls the night that Euron spent with him. The remarkable directness of her comment would normally deserve a beating, but Euron’s mood is generous. The news that Snow’s mind is intact is good indeed. Still, he can’t remain bound so for long. He’s of a mind to instruct his boatswain to source a more practical restraint. A collar, perhaps. It would make a pretty decoration on that pale neck.

The next day the winds are rising higher against them, and Euron's wizard slaves seem unable to set them to rights. There are three of them - two warlocks from Qarth and one red priest from Volantis. They used to shadow his steps on the  _Silence_ , but Euron has grown weary of them of late. Once he was enamoured with their magic and set his course on the path their riddles suggested. They prophesised he would  _fly_. Now they seem rattled by the high winds, their visions chopped up like the sea. Between them they've bled six slaves, and their gods have answered none of their prayers. 

One of them even bursts into Euron's quarters uninvited, screaming hysterically of dead men and spiders, set on attacking Jon Snow. Euron hears the commotion from above deck. By the time he gets there, the matter has been dealt with. The wizard is emaciated from years of captivity, and he’s unlucky: Snow is with Missandei, half-bound, and recovering his strength. It seems the wizard only managed to rake the lad’s bare chest with jagged nails before a well-struck blow from tied hands bested him.   
  
Euron flays the man. It’s not his usual practice because of its time-consuming nature, but it’s an effective lesson for all who would consider displeasing him, including Jon Snow. He’s dragged out to the deck by some of the crew to watch.   
  
“It's a northern technique boy," Euron calls to him cheerfully. "Surely you know of it."  
  
He has to raise his voice to be heard over the wizard’s screams. Quite a pathetic display, since he’d only peeled the front of the man’s left thigh so far. Snow twists in the grasp of the men holding him, face frozen in revulsion.   
  
"No?” Euron pauses to sharpen his knife with a whetstone. "Ah, yes. The honourable Starks never did such a thing. An oversight, it turns out, wouldn't you agree, Jon? Honour did not keep your father's house whole. I hear the Boltons rule the north in their stead. Worry not bastard, for today I shall teach you what you should have learned at your father’s knee. Hold him fast, lads, and keep his head up. Make sure he sees.”  
  
It turns out to be an enjoyable way to spend an otherwise dull afternoon. Euron had forgotten how satisfying an activity it could be, and the skill comes back to him quite swiftly. The trick, he remembers, is to cut a section of skin no more than the width and half-length of a man’s arm, and then dissect a little way underneath at the top and sides. The blade must be angled shallow, so as not to fillet the muscle, and if it is done exactly so, the skin comes off in one clean strip. Euron dislikes untidy edges. Unfortunately despite his care, the man’s frailty tells in the end, and he dies some time before Euron is done. He finishes the task anyway for art’s sake.  
  
The remaining warlock and priest prostrate themselves at his feet. They had wisely not begged on the man’s behalf. Snow did at first, then eventually fell into shocked silence. Euron was very glad he tried, because ever since Stark joined with Baratheon to fight the Iron Islands, he always took special pleasure in hearing their people break. Cries of _please_ and s _top_ sound like music in northern tones.   
  
There is little doubt the winds will be at their back henceforth, which is well, as the supplies are dwindling too fast to feed everyone aboard. Later Euron meets his men to order the rations be reduced further still. He has already considered the possibility of roasting some of the slaves for meat, as they have done in lean times past. He had dismissed the thought quickly. They've lost money enough on the ones they've shed.  
  
Instead he retires with a skin of wine, the one thing they seem to have in excess. In his personal chamber he finds the maester, sitting at the desk writing messages. Jon Snow is there too, now stripped at Euron's instruction. As expected, Snow is unsettled by this vulnerability, angrily flushed and averting his eyes. It's a fetching sight. Euron splays himself on his chair with his cup and lets his blue eye linger on Jon's nakedness.

“Jon Snow,” he begins, jovial despite his empty belly. “Nay, Jon! I shall call you Jon. We know each other too well for formalities. Jon, I hope you understand the effort I went to on your behalf. It takes a great deal of strength and patience to flay a man, and I wouldn’t have done it for anyone but you. Yet you give me no thanks.” 

Jon doesn’t speak, held fast by the guards holding him, gaze fixed on the wall. Euron gives an exaggerated sigh. “You, boy, test my temper daily. Happily you are fair both in luck and of face, because I’ve grown quite fond of you. So I bring you good news. We’re returning to the Iron Islands, as you must have heard. You will be my guest of honour.” He nods to Maester Erich, scratching at scrolls with his quill. “I am calling the Stark banners. We shall have a moot. I’ll wager they will be very interested to see you, though they shall have to look down. For when the mighty northmen come to treat before the Seastone Chair, you will be kneeling at my feet. And so shall they.”  
  
That draws a response at last. Jon looks to him, expression solemn. “No. They won’t bend the knee, not to you. You don't understand the north. We remember. And they wouldn’t surrender for a bastard."  
  
"You underestimate your worth, Jon Snow."  
  
"It doesn't matter anyway,” he replies, insistent. “None of it matters. You, the Lannisters, the Targaryen Queen: you're all fighting the wrong war. Death marches from the north; there will be nothing left of Westeros when winter comes."  
  
All Euron can muster is a shrug. This much he knows, and it too is part of his plan. “I’ve heard it boy. I know Ice has risen to match the Fire.” Such balance is the way of the world.

"You know nothing,” Jon returns sharply. “They have an army of dead men, raised, ever growing in numbers. I've seen it. I counted thousands, and more are added each time they attack. I brought as many wildlings as I could south of the Wall. For that, I was called a traitor. But the men who killed me will be the first to fall."  
  
There’s no trace of bitterness in his voice, merely sorrow. Euron suddenly sees him for what he once was: a leader born, not bred. Bringing the wildlings through the Wall was a courageously stupid idea, all the more remarkable for the fact that he achieved it, no matter the price he ultimately paid. He’s been thinking of Jon Snow as a boy, but he’s a man grown, noble as his father and even more dangerous.

A rustle of wings at the window startles the maester into dropping his quill. A raven is flapping on the sill, a scroll on each leg.

“She’s one of our own, Your Grace, sent back by Lady Asha most like.” Maester Erich says as he retrieves it.

“What news from my niece, maester?”

The maester unfurls the first scroll to read. “They hear the Vale has marched to Winterfell to join with the Boltons. No doubt they plan to move south to Kings Landing."

“No matter. The moot will settle all. And the second message?”

The maester scans the words and blanches. He hesitates, forcing Euron to motion impatiently for him to continue.

“Speak, man!”

“I…it is your nephew, Your Grace. He is aboard the _Sea Bitch_ with Lady Asha. She thought best to tell you. He is in a poor state, and she could not bring herself to leave him to perish alone.” 

Euron feels twin rushes of surprise and rage. Asha herself had told them Theon was dead. Tortured, unmanned and killed by Ramsay Bolton, he heard. It is a travesty he yet lives, a shame upon the Greyjoy house. A gelded cripple of a prince is no challenge to Euron’s claim to the throne, but Asha has proven herself a liar and soft of heart. He doesn’t know which is more disappointing.

“Worry not, Maester Erich. I will do for Theon,” Euron says coldly.

The maester’s frown is sad. “Yes, Your Grace. If the tales of the mistreatment by the Dreadfort bastard are true, it would be a mercy.”

“Mercy,” Jon speaks then. “Is that what ironborn call the slaying of kin?” 

“You are an ungrateful whelp.” The wine has begun to stoke his anger. “This should please you. Your people named him turncloak. He betrayed your brothers.”

“Yes. And he’s _mine_ to kill.” Jon’s glare is dark and challenging. 

“Nothing is _yours_ Jon Snow,” Euron grates out. “I thought you had learned. Woe to you that I must teach you again. Maester, you may go. Jon Snow needs another lesson, and I would look upon him with _both_ eyes.” 

The maester spills his inkpot in his haste to leave. 

It’s not truly an eye anymore. It’s a socket charred to blackness with a central red hole of exposed tissue, burned out by a poker wielded by one of his wizards long ago. It is his mind’s eye now, damning and terrible. Through it he can see into men’s souls, and they into his, and Euron knows those who glimpse it forever have it haunt their nightmares. As Euron advances and lifts his patch, even his own crew are undone by it. With strangled howls the two release their charge and scuttle quickly for the door. It matters not, because Jon Snow is affixed under Euron’s stare, a fresh horror dawning in his eyes. He retreats as far as he can, backing up against a bedpost. Euron claims Jon's head with both hands to keep him from recoiling.

“Do you see now, Jon Snow? Do you see _me_?”

 _He does_ , Euron knows instantly.  _More so than any other man_. The magic pulses under Euron’s palms, and the acrid taste of blood fills his mouth. A channel has opened between them, memories gorgeous and bloody streaming through Euron’s fingertips beyond his skill to stem. Distantly he can recognise that he cannot touch Jon’s own mind; the bridge seems to be one way alone. Regardless, the surge of power is intoxicating. Euron can see each of his past deeds strike Jon as he lives it through his eyes: every man he has killed; every woman he has tortured; every babe he has torn from a mother’s breast to throw into the sea. What he did to Victarion, and Victarion's wife. What he did to _Aeron_.

He’s caught in the magic so fully he doesn’t notice as it wavers and finally breaks. When he comes back to himself, Jon has already dropped into a crouch, muscles coiled to attack.

Euron can’t fend off the two quick blows to his left flank, and doubles over with a grunt. His next instinct is to swing out to catch Jon around the chest. He misses. The younger man is weak from his confinement, but fast and agile. He ducks around Euron’s blind side to sweep his leg, driving him to his hands and knees. Then, his breath disappears. The lad's arm has closed around his neck.

The vision in his blue eye dims, and Euron knows he has just one chance. He steadies himself and sends an elbow back to catch Jon in the groin. It’s not enough to make him drop his arm but the distraction is all Euron needs. He musters all of his power and reaches up and over his shoulders, gripping Jon by the upper arms to haul him overtop. The youth slams hard onto his side, momentarily stunned, then scrambles onto his belly, hands planted, ready to lift up and continue the fight.

Jon can't know it’s already over. Euron is behind him and leans one knee into the small of his back, making Jon cry out under the weight. Euron fists his hair with one hand and with his other he wrenches Jon’s right arm up high behind him.

The hold is painful and inescapable. All any opponent can do is press up on their free arm to try to relieve the strain. Euron pulls Jon’s head back further, and he grunts at the contortion, panting and slick with sweat.

Euron is breathless too. Jon is so beautiful, writhing beneath him in forced surrender. Euron's other passion rises, the one he's being reigning in for days, and he gives into it now. He’s waited long enough.

He takes Jon Snow then, completely, and it’s as blinding as it is brief. Jon fights; kicking out and bucking, and Euron can’t possibly last against such exquisite resistance. He’s been hard as iron since he entered the room, became harder still during the struggle. He scrambles, desperate to pin the thrashing body down and when he does, it’s all he can do to brace on one arm, press Jon’s legs open and thrust with a savageness born of pent up rage and desire. Once he’s in that tight, hot space he draws back on Jon’s hips, merciless, grinding relentlessly toward his release. Jon screams at first, a shocked, gorgeous noise that makes Euron's lust soar. As he peaks, Euron can feel the body beneath him still; can hear Jon's cries fade to short, clipped moans of distress. Jon's head is pressed to his crossed forearms, his whole body quivering. The scent of fresh blood fills the air.

Euron roars into Jon’s shoulder blade, and spends. 

He lies unmoving for a time, simply breathing into the soft curls at the nape of Jon’s neck. When Euron turns him over Jon’s soft groan stretches into an agonised cry. Euron swallows it with a hard kiss.  
  
His own legs shake as he rises to drain the rest of the wine. Jon Snow is curled over and silent, a small pool of blood gathering beneath him. Euron judges there will be no need to bind him tonight. He will send for the Maester and Missandei to deal with him.

A ragged voice stops him at the chamber door.

“I _will_ kill you.” Jon has somehow dragged himself up to stand. His eyes are filled with pain and loathing.  
  
“No, Jon Snow, you won’t. I won’t die by any man’s hand.” A wizard in Asshai told him this long ago. Euron believes it. “Speak no more of such lad, it is a waste of breath. Save your strength. You will need it.”  
  
The following day the winds do indeed die down. However, some of the older crew are struggling to maintain the stroke pace on empty bellies, and the ship lags several days behind schedule. Euron himself begins to take a turn at an oar daily. Jon Snow too, eventually, when the maester declares him fit, albeit fettered at ankle and neck. The collar the 'swain has fashioned for him is wrought from iron, slender but unyielding. It sits prettily on Jon's neck, a length of slim, strong chain attached so he can be locked in place or drawn sharply to heel. The end of the leash rarely leaves Euron's hand.

 _A pleasing adornment,_ Euron thinks, _though perhaps unnecessary_. In truth it was as Euron suspected: all it took was a short explanation and a knife at Missandei’s throat to convince Jon what disobedience would bring. The auctioneer was right about one thing, at least.  

He resists at nightfall, though, when Euron retires to his own chamber with him and tethers him to his bed, no doubt because he knows what comes next. There's always a glimmer of it in the tension of his body, an angry flush in his cheeks. He wonders if Jon would persist with his defiance if he knew it made the taking all the sweeter. His unwilling submission is like an elixir, more powerful than any wizard's potions. Every tortured arch of his back; every shudder; every smothered scream: each one feeds Euron, diffusing across his skin and into his very blood, and his whole body throbs with it. The magic of winter licked with flame.  
  
Afterwards Jon is always pale with pain and ice cold and sometimes the maester slips a little milk of the poppy and valerian root in to his wine to make him sleep. Jon takes the drink readily enough when Missandei brings it, both unknowing of the tasteless additions.

“He will grow dependent upon it, Your Grace,” Maester Erich says worriedly. “It will not be long, and you will have to give it to him every night.”

Euron knows it. He’s seen many a man become obsessed with chasing the poppy: lords; merchants; peasants. Kings. All were made dull-witted and slow with repeated use, and dangerously unpredictable when deprived of it. The habit disgusts Euron. Any of his crew unfortunate enough to find themselves so addicted met a very unhappy end at his hands. _Shade of the Evening_ is his preferred poison. It opens up the mind rather than closing it. For now the drug is a necessary thing. Exhaustion can kill a man, and he wants Jon Snow to live a good deal longer. It works as intended, for each night Jon takes it he swiftly falls into unnatural rest, his breathing slow and deep. 

The moon waxes to a half-circle again and they are drawing close to the Summer Isles. Euron is woken by the wordless call of his first mate, alerting him that he’s sighted land.

He doesn’t respond quite yet. Instead, he rolls over to watch Jon Snow sleep. His head is turned away from Euron, black hair spilling across the pillow. The soft moonlight filters through the window and shadows the lashes on his cheeks and the collar encircling his neck.

Euron has never before allowed anyone to stay abed with him, but the need to stay physically connected is strong. Not for lust alone, although that does fill him day and night. No, it is simply that just by being near Jon, Euron’s visions have grown more vivid, and with Jon at his side, he can almost reach out and touch his destiny. The image forms solid in his mind's eye, immutable where it had been flickering: dragonfire will blend with iron and all will yield in its wake.

The visions ignite his desire anew. Jon’s eyes flutter open as Euron presses his knees up and apart to mount him. He is barely able to give a low moan in protest. The maester’s concoction has left the youth weak and pliant, so Euron takes his time, rolling his hips languidly and sucking the hollow of Jon’s throat below the collar. Jon throws his arms up over his eyes, and Euron wrests them away, pinning his wrists above his head. 

"Look at me, Jon Snow." He drives in roughly by way of reminder, and Jon's eyes snap open with it. Even in half-sleep, there is a startling hatred in their depths.

Euron crests, groaning into Jon's mouth, and he lies sated for a few moments before forcing himself to rise. Slipping on his robe, he glances back to Jon, now rolled over to his side. The sheet is pooling at his hips and exposing the curve of his spine. Euron feels the urge to return to him, and the thought crosses his mind that the young man may not be the only one risking a kind of enslavement. 

 _No._ Euron shakes his head clear. He alone has control. If it favours his plans, he would dispatch Jon Snow without regret.  _  
_

Up on the deck he meets a bracing gust of salt-air. The merchant port of the Summer Isles dominates the horizon, and soon the _Sea Bitch_ is visible, already anchored. He’s reminded of Theon, that still living abomination. Asha’s mistake must be corrected, and if there was time Euron would have made a point to persuade her to do the deed herself. However, she will have another duty. They will berth for three nights all told to restock and replace the slaves that have died. The _Sea Bitch_ will be sent on to its next destination and the _Silence_ will reach Pyke in another full turn of the moon.

And there, Euron will have his moot.


	4. Chapter 4

Euron meets his niece at dawn.

He can recognise Asha at a thousand paces. She has a characteristic swagger unlike anything he’s seen in any other woman, and as she strides to meet him on the wharf, he disapprovingly notes it is worse than ever. Harras Harlaw keeps pace at her side, and ten Ironmen are bringing up the rear lugging provisions. Asha must know they need something to break their fast.

Euron almost overlooks the man shuffling at Asha’s back, struggling to keep up.  _The would-be prince of Pyke_ , Euron supposes. He remembers him as a child. Now he is barely recognisable; limping and haunted. The maester is right. Death would be a gift for this one. 

“Well met, Uncle,” Asha greets him. “We worried the sea had finally claimed you.”

Uncle, she calls him. Not King. _Insolent bitch._

“I did not know you cared so, niece. I hope you did not lose any sleep over the matter. It was the Storm God who stirred to hold the  _Silence_  back. The Drowned God saw fit to spare us. My men are all whole, if hungry. Your gifts are most welcome.”

“Aeron thinks you a godless man, uncle. Have you found religion on your travels?" 

“Ah, my dear brother mistakes me. I have already discovered far more than you could ever guess. The Gods all know me well. I sense them about me always, in the sea air, in the flames, amid the stench of dying men. I do not need to pray. It is they who conspire to keep me on my path.”

Euron has no intention of speaking on the subject further. The secrets the Gods whisper to him are for his ears alone. He drapes an arm around Asha's shoulder to guide her to the  _Silence_. 

“We stayed a while in Astapor,” he says to redirect the conversation. “It was free for the taking. Mayhap you will see the smoke all the way from Volantis.”

Asha’s eyebrows rise at the name; he had not informed her of her ultimate destination. Euron holds up his hands to halt her question.

“In time, niece. Bring your men. My crew are starving, and we have much to discuss.”

Asha has brought bread and salted pork, and some fresh fruit from the Summer Isles. The crew descend ravenously, and Euron pulls Asha and Harras away to speak. He briefly outlines his plan to them, deliberately skimming over the details, much to Asha’s apparent chagrin. By contrast, Harras' lined countenance stays impassive throughout. Since he was named Lord of Greyshield, he has been Euron's man completely. He makes one inquiry on a point of navigation and excuses himself to talk with his men.

To Euron’s immense irritation, he soon perceives Asha’s creature at the edge of his vision, trying to blend in with the crew as they crowd around the boxes. Most of them are deformed too, called monstrous by some, mutilated either at birth or another man’s hand. Euron himself ripped out each of their tongues, and took a few limbs besides. Any man who dared challenge him knew the slow pain of his mercy.

“So, niece. I have told you of your task. My slave Missandei will explain the rest while you sail. First I would know your mind, Asha. What is  _he_  doing here?”

Nothing she could say is acceptable. Her words are wind. She will no doubt speak of familial loyalty, of a bond that cannot be broken. Euron knows it can be. It has happened time after time his own memory and long before. Son betrays father, brother betrays brother.  _Perhaps niece will betray uncle_ , Euron thinks sourly.

“You would have had me leave him?” Asha demands. “He is your only living nephew. He was tortured by the Boltons and left to die, alone, not in battle. Is that how a Greyjoy should end?”

 _Your father died so, at my behest._  Out loud he counters, “That  _thing_  is no kraken’s son. And he is a traitor besides.”

Asha juts her chin out in defiance. “You’re wrong, uncle. He took Winterfell for the Seastone Chair. He survived the Dreadfort. He is your blood; you cannot turn him away.” 

“I cannot? You dare to give me commands, Asha? Is this how you speak to your King?” Euron asks icily. “I have accommodated your lack of respect for too long. You forget yourself niece. Blood or no, I do not look kindly on disloyalty.”

Bitterness twists her mouth for a moment, but soon she drops to her knees. “I am sorry, Your Grace. It was a difficult journey. We made all haste to meet you here, and I regret my mind has grown weary and stupid. Please forgive my impertinence.” 

Euron glowers down upon her, jaw clenched. It will not do to discipline her here. Her men are loyal, and a fight between their respective crews would be wasteful. It would also mean his plan to send her as an envoy to Volantis would fall into ruin. However, Asha’s commitment to his cause is uncertain, and he cannot risk his intent being misreported by someone with a treasonous heart. The maester will have to go with her. Choice made, he beckons her to rise.

“You are forgiven niece. No doubt your womanly humours are partly to blame. I have told you and Harras of your task: to find the Dragon Queen, and win her to our cause. My spies tell me she will reach Volantis soon. I think it best if Maester Erich accompanies you to meet her; he knows my heart and words well. The Gods have given me the chance to take the north in Stannis’ wake, so I cannot parley with her myself.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I will do as you ask. Can your maester by any chance speak High Valyrian? I’m afraid mine is a little rusty.” The weak joke is accompanied by a half-smile, and it settles the tension between them. Still, Euron decides she will not live long upon her return.

“I hear the Queen speaks the common tongue, but my slave girl has already translated some of my messages into Valyrian. She is an obedient wench, and appealing to the eye. Mayhap this Daenerys Targaryen will take a liking to her. If so, you have my permission to offer her as a gift.”

“Thank you, King-Uncle,” Asha says. Euron finds he doesn’t mind her strange honorific, and nods to let her know he will allow it.

“The warmth of Essos will be good for Theon,” she goes on, “and I hear they have fat lambs and plentiful crops. It will help him grow stronger.”

“Theon will not be going with you, niece.”

“No! I…” Asha starts, then checks herself and takes a breath. “As it please you King-Uncle. Perhaps this is the place for him, by your side. He's better than I saw him last, Your Grace, and he could be of use to you. He knows himself again. Theon!” 

She calls to her brother, whom the crew push forward to fall heavily at Euron's feet. He's rail-thin and missing several fingers. Euron has never been subject to the weakening influence of compassion, and he certainly feels none for this one. Theon’s own father spoke of him with disdain long before he was maimed. If only Balon could see his son now. 

“Two years you were kept by the Boltons, and yet you live.” It is a fact that defies belief.

Theon's sister speaks for him.

“He is ironborn, King-Uncle. We are hard to kill.” There is a ludicrous note of pride in Asha's tone. Euron doesn’t bother to hide his contempt in reply.

“Ironborn? He has betrayed us all. No enemy captured by the Dreadfort escapes death.  _Their knives are sharp_. He has given up Pyke’s secrets.”

“No,” Theon blurts, standing now. His voice is stronger Euron would have thought for one so gaunt. Maybe the tales of his torment were false. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. Father never let me in on anything. I had nothing to tell.”

“So you are here as a spy.”

“No!” Theon repeats, louder. “I ran away. Ramsay was fighting Stannis, and while he was gone I helped—“

He breaks off abruptly and gulps. “I ran. Ramsay will be looking for me. Please don’t let him take me back.”

Theon seems to shrink to half his size at the prospect, and yes, this is more like the man Euron expected. 

At Asha’s nudge, Theon continues, “I watched them. I listened. They thought I would never be a threat. Ramsay told me everything. And I lived at Winterfell for ten years altogether. I know the way in.”

“He can help you, King-Uncle,” Asha argues passionately. “His knowledge can serve you in your plan to take the North.” She inclines her head in deference. “If Your Grace chooses it, of course.” 

It is worth considering. They have two days and three nights here and it won’t take that long to wring the secrets out of Theon. The lad wouldn’t be able to put up a fight even if he wanted to. He is all bone and no meat and seemingly eager to tell all. It is a shame, as otherwise it would have been a welcome occupation while his men set about gathering supplies. Luckily, Euron has another distraction waiting in his chambers. 

 _Distraction indeed._  Jon Snow fills his mind. He woke at first light, the valerian and milk no longer weighing down his limbs and was as beautiful and angry as a wild animal in a hunter’s trap. Euron wonders what the bastard of Winterfell would think of his foster brother now. It would make for an entertaining game, setting them against one another. Given the opportunity, Jon may dispose of his nephew for him. The thought makes Euron’s mood lift a little, and Theon jumps at his burst of laughter.

“Aye, it would seem Asha had the right of it after all nephew! What a brave deed. Spying on the Boltons for me all this time? And look at the cost you’ve paid. It was well your sister came upon you, and that she chose to spare you. I shall take it as a lesson that even the greatest of rulers need wise counsel. Come inside, friends. I would drink to your health.”

The great chamber occupies the middle section of Euron’s quarters. His maps are there, two coffers of them, most of them drawn by his own hand. He invites his niece and nephew to sit on a cushioned bench, and pours the wine first for Asha, and next Theon, who clutches the cup tight in both hands. He’s clumsy at it, and when Missandei slips out of Euron’s bedchamber, it makes Theon startle. The wine sloshes over the rim to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says, and makes to kneel to clean his mess. 

“Calm yourself nephew. Missandei will take care of your spilled wine.”

She’s instantly there at Theon’s feet, setting aside a large bowl of fragrant water to wipe the wood with a wet cloth. The water is steaming and bloodstained.

“What is that? Is all well?” Euron asks sharply. 

Missandei pauses in her work. “Yes, Your Grace. Your men are with him now.” She hesitates, glancing uncertainly to Theon and Asha. “Some of his wounds opened overnight. I saw some honey and lemons in the supplies and I remembered that the healers of my homeland used them on injured warriors to stave off corruption and stem bleeding.”

“You should have spoken to me first, girl,” he says coldly. “I hope such valuable produce was not wasted.” 

“I am sorry, Your Grace. I asked the maester, and he gave consent. It does not require much, just a little of each diluted in hot water. It works best if one bathes in it and drinks it together. I could tell it stung him a little on the broken skin. I don’t think I had the balance quite right.”

“Your concern is touching,” Euron says sarcastically. “Get away downstairs now, woman. No doubt they have need of your help with the supplies.”

Euron frowns at her retreating back. The timing of her departure for Volantis appears fortunate. She and the bastard have become too close for his liking and he cannot risk them plotting behind his back.

From the corner of his smiling eye, he sees his niece and nephew share a look of confusion. They will soon understand.

“Drink up, my brother’s children. Please forgive me; I will join you again shortly. The slaves will bring salted bread.”

In his bedchamber, it is as Missandei said: two of his crew are there, and they have Jon Snow bent over the bed, wrists bound behind him. At Euron's entrance, they raise their heads in acknowledgement, and one of the men backs away. The second keeps hold of his prisoner, fingers of one hand hooked under the iron collar and the other pressing into Jon’s back. The skin and muscle of the man’s lower face was burnt clean away long ago, leaving uncovered bone and the ragged root of his tongue. Children scream when they see him, and some grown men as well. He's served faithfully since the day Euron set fire to his flesh.

His name is Pink Petyr, and at Euron's signal he tugs at Jon’s breeches to expose the base of his spine and his buttocks. There are whip marks on the tender skin there, left by the galley master three days past as punishment for abandoning his oar. He'd gone to aid a seatmate who'd slumped with exhaustion, but the oars are balanced and must be pulled in harmony. Two men down made the galley lurch into chaos. As was his right, the galley master slit the throat of the oarsman, then strung Jon up in front of the rest of the galley to be lashed. Within twenty strokes the men got back into rhythm. Truthfully, although he permitted the action, it was a touch more excessive than Euron would have liked. He does not want Jon scarred further, and he had to force a second dose of the cursed poppy down the lad later that night. Today, the marks are certainly less inflamed than Euron remembers. Missandei’s medicine must be working.

Pink Petyr grunts in appreciation and slips a finger down the cleft of the young man's arse, making Jon emit a stifled cry. He is thickly gagged and Euron can see why: there’s a large tear on Petyr's forearm, surrounded by the distinct indentation of teeth.

“Ah, fear not, Jon Snow. My men are not here to defile you.” Euron says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Though Pink Petyr here longs to, and many others besides. My crew have been at sea for weeks and you are prettier than any of their salt wives.”

Jon twists his head to glare at him and gives a wrench of his shoulders in protest.

“No, they know you are mine alone. One day I may choose to share you with those who please me greatly. For now, my men do only as I bid. As do you.” 

Petyr pulls up Jon’s breeches and lifts him to stand. Euron rises too, and cups Jon’s cheek. The fresh scent of honey-lemon clings to the lad's skin, and it somehow makes him even more alluring. Euron decides he shall instruct him to bathe in it daily henceforth.

“Come, Jon. I will free your mouth, since it charms me so, on one condition: no biting, young wolf. I will sew your pretty lips together if you do. Here, let me untie the knot…there, that’s it. Good lad. Now come with me.” Euron tugs at the leash to lead him to the door. 

Theon’s reaction to the sight of Jon being dragged to his knees in front of him is all Euron wished for. He gasps and gapes. If Asha is at all disturbed by it she covers it well. She studies Jon with curiosity.

“Who is this, King-Uncle? He’s no peasant taken as a thrall, that much I can guess.”

“Your brother knows, don’t you lad? You know him very well.”

Theon doesn’t answer. He’s still gawking open-mouthed, staring at the collar at Jon's throat.

“Did the Boltons take your tongue as well as your cock, Theon?” Euron asks mildly. “I heard the Bolton bastard made a gift of it to your father."

The colour drains from Theon’s face.

“Pardon, lad," Euron soothes, "I did not mean to upset you. A dreadful business, and it is cruel of me to remind you of it.”

On the floor to Euron's right, the hostility is pouring off Jon Snow in waves. Euron wagers he didn’t even recognise his father’s ward until Euron spoke the name.

“Theon,” Jon snarls, and lunges from his knees. Euron wrests him back roughly with the leash and crouches to Jon's side. He’s rigid with rage, belly muscles bunched up tight to keep his balance against the pull on his neck. Euron eases the tension on the leash to allow him to straighten, and he does so, stare never wavering from the crippled man. 

“Theon,” Jon growls again through gritted teeth. “You traitorous coward! You betrayed Robb. He thought of you as a _brother_. After all my father did for you, after everything…you deserve to die.”

“I know! I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Theon bursts out, covering his ears with his misshapen hands. “He made me pay for it, over and over. I deserved everything!”

Jon’s brow furrows in confusion, and Asha leaps up hotly. 

“Is this a Bolton, King-Uncle? Is this the man who tortured my brother?”

“Nay, niece, but he shares a name with the one who did. Bastards of the north, both of them, though I think you’ll find them very different men. Mayhap the begetting has somewhat to do with it. The Bolton bastard was born of rape in a time of peace, I'm told, and this one of passion in a time of war. Have you fathered any bastards, nephew? I have six or seven of them. I hope you spread your seed wide in the north before you found yourself in the company of Ramsay Snow. Of course it is too late if you have not.”

Euron is addressing Theon but it’s Jon he watches. The young man’s mouth drops open in shock and understanding, and his eyes soften with something close to pity. The conflict plays clearly across his features briefly, then he steels himself, lips pressing into a grim line.

Satisfied, Euron stands. “Do not grieve, nephew. It is true that no noble born maid will marry you so enfeebled. You can father no children, and while it is not oft told, a woman’s appetite can be as insatiable as any man's. Such a one will not be a good wife to a man who leaves her unsatisfied. So think of this as a blessing, nephew. You will never be a slave to a woman’s fickle whims.”

“There are other ways to pleasure a woman, King-Uncle,” Asha says slyly. “I’m surprised you do not know of them.”

“I know of them, niece,” Euron responds with irritation. He does not lower himself to worry about another’s pleasure. ”I simply do not like the taste.”

“I’ll bet that one does,” Asha points to Jon Snow. “This northerner of yours. His mouth looks made for it.” 

The smile she sends to the kneeling man is lewd. Euron is reminded of what the Astaporian auctioneer said of Jon’s talented tongue, and storm of jealousy hits him. He’s yet to use the lad’s mouth himself. He’s thought much about it, how soft and warm Jon’s pouting lips would feel on his cock. He doesn’t trust Jon enough though. He’s a wolf still, caged and not tamed. Pink Petyr’s arm was testament to that, and Euron would rather gamble with his very life than risk losing his manhood to a Stark’s sharp teeth. It is a most unsatisfactory thing, and will have to be remedied. He must make his intentions more clear.

“You will never find out if it is so, niece,” he says curtly. “Come now Theon. Your sister cannot put the pieces together.”

“It’s Jon. Jon Snow,” Theon whispers brokenly, and Asha frowns, puzzled.

“What? The Stark bastard?”

“The very same,” Euron replies. He rests a hand on Jon’s head to pet his hair, enjoying the flinch it elicits. 

“But… he’s dead. Wasn’t he Lord Commander at the Wall for a time? I heard there was a mutiny, and he was killed.” 

“Reports of his death were exaggerated, much like they were for some others,” Euron says dryly. “I found him in Astapor, quite alive as you can see. He’d been sold into slavery by his former sworn brothers.”

Asha's frown clears. “That is news, King-Uncle. With his knowledge of Winterfell added to Theon’s, we have a real advantage over the north.”

“Aye. We do. Maester Erich has sent out ravens to all the northern houses. By now they will know we have Ned Stark’s last son in our hands, and I have called them to a moot in Pyke. They want to avoid a war and the Boltons are not beloved by their people. If the northern lords accept me as their King, I will offer to legitimise Jon Snow and install him as Warden of the North.”

“I see, King-Uncle. It’s a fine plan,” she nods, thoughtful. “In the meantime, if I may be so bold, I would warn you to take care, and chain him in one of the cages in the lower hold. He looks strong, and he must have proven himself in battle to be elected to command the Night’s Watch. He is a dangerous man to leave alive, King-Uncle. Still...”

Asha takes a step forward to trail a hand up Jon’s shoulder, sweeping slowly up his neck and along his jaw. She presses two fingers to his mouth when he opens it to protest.

“He  _is_  lovely,” she says, tracing the outline of his lips. He pulls his head away with a scowl and she laughs lightly. “I can see why you want to keep him near.”

Euron knocks her hand away. “What I do with him is not of your concern, niece. And control yourself. Your wantonness is unbecoming.” 

Asha shrugs and moves back. “I’ve never had any complaints about it before. Worry not, King-Uncle, I won’t steal him from you. I like my men a bit taller. And a shade more willing.”

“Then you have forgotten who you are,” Euron counters. “Our way is the Old Way. We pay the iron price for our spoils.”

“Aye, we do,” she agrees. “But I would prefer a lover less of a mind to slit my throat at the first chance he gets.”

“You think that likely, niece?”

“He was black brothers’ leader and is a Stark by blood. So I’d wager yes.”

“Then you are wrong. Jon Snow knows what the cost of such an act would be, don’t you boy?”

He tangles his fingers in Jon’s hair and tilts his head back to stare intently into his eyes. Euron recognises the loathing there, now mixed with burgeoning despair.

“Yes, you know. You know it is the girl Missandei who would feel my wrath should you disobey me. You wouldn’t like what I’d do to her, Jon. I’ve seen you two together. You’ve become so close, always whispering. Perhaps you even want her as a lover. It would be no surprise if you did. She’s a beautiful woman and she handles you so tenderly.”

Euron pulls Jon’s hair tight and leans in to speak directly into his ear. “But tenderness is not what you need, bastard. A sweet young body like yours was made for a man like me to break and you have magic that helps you revive anew. We can do this dance forever, you and I.”

Euron is the only one who can hear the soft moan that escapes Jon’s lips before he cuts himself off. Grinning, he releases the lad’s hair and turns back to Asha.

“He will learn his place in time and ‘til then all he must do is remember my words and the price I will exact if he forgets.” A kind of manic glee takes over him, and he lets his grin stretch wider. “And it will not end when the slave girl leaves with you to Volantis. I have instructed my men to find amongst the women of the Summer Isles her mirror image. Should Jon try to maim or kill me, my crew will take the girl and they will slice off her limbs, one by one, until she is nothing but a cunt and a mouth to use. And they _will_  use her, each one of them, again and again until she dies. All because of this man, Jon Snow. Her screams will haunt him on his deathbed.”

“Gods,” Jon rasps. Asha sets her wine aside and gives Theon's knee a gentle squeeze to stop him from shaking. He had taken on a greenish cast as Euron spoke.

“Well, King-Uncle," she says carefully, "it sounds like you have him in hand. Far be it from me to question your judgement. When do we set sail?”

‘You shall journey on the morrow.”

“And you?”

“We will abide here for another two days. We have provisions to gather and I must send more ravens. Nephew, how is your writing? Do your missing fingers render it unreadable?” 

Theon tears his eyes from Jon and clears his throat. “No. Ramsay made sure I could still take messages for him. I read the replies to him as he ate his supper.” 

“Good. You shall do the same for me. The ravens will be your responsibility, and a few other things besides. Niece, take your leave. I would speak to Theon alone.”

Asha purses her lips with worry. “I will see you soon, brother,” she says to Theon and casts a glance to Euron, questioning.

“Aye, you will,” Euron supplies smoothly. “Come back at nightfall and we three shall dine together.”

Asha bows. For few moments after she leaves, the only sound is Theon’s harsh breathing, and the creak of the ship as it lists in the harbour. Unexpectedly, it is Jon who speaks first.

“Get out while you can, Theon,” Jon says quietly. “If I don’t kill you, he will. He’s spoken of it. Kin means nothing to him. Like my family meant nothing to you.”

“No, I didn’t…they did…” Theon falters. “I know,” he finishes, barely audible.

Jon’s lack of malice is disappointing. The game will be dull if he and Theon do not play their parts.

“You warn him of me Jon Snow? Has your anger burned out so swiftly?” Euron goads. “How would your family feel about your weakness, I wonder? Your father?”

“My father would understand if he’d seen the things I’ve seen. He’d know there’s no sense in warring amongst ourselves while the White Walkers unite the dead to slaughter us all. We’re running out of time.”

“There is always time for revenge, wolf. Every man has a streak of darkness within him; Theon showed his when he hanged your young brothers. Where is yours, Jon Snow?”

“One day you will see it Greyjoy. I will repay you for what you've done. For now, what you’re seeking…you won’t find it in me.”

“You think so, bastard? I think I can dig it out of you." 

He hunkers down in front of Jon to command his attention.

"How about if I lay you down and take you here in front of your enemy?" Euron asks mildly. Theon makes a strangled noise, and Jon looks to Euron, his eyes narrowing. Euron nods. "Aye, I could do that, bastard. Or perhaps you would rather I push my cock through those pretty lips of yours. Would that please you?" Euron captures Jon’s neck in an iron grip. "Yes, that's it. I’ve been of a mind to do it for days, and I think I will now. I’ll fill your mouth beyond your ability to think or breathe, boy. Thrust in until I spend my seed down your throat. You’ll choke on it, Jon Snow, but you’ll not spit nor bite. I have told you exactly how another will pay if you do.”

At the tips of Euron’s fingers, Jon’s pulse is fluttering rapidly. He’s flushed all over and trembling, now, an enticing blend of dread and rage. 

“And soon after I’ll be hard again," Euron continues, lust swelling. "You remember how that happens, don’t you Jon? The fault lies with you and your shameless body after all.”

“Stop,” Theon pleads. Euron ignores him and digs his fingernails hard into Jon’s skin. 

“I’ll fuck you then, Snow. I’ll take you like I do each night, and then I’ll give you to Petyr here, and my wretched nephew will watch. He’ll see you writhe. He’ll smell your blood. He’ll hear you try to bite back your screams. The man who betrayed your family will bear witness to it all.”

Theon issues a long moan. “No, please, don't make me. Not again. Not after Sansa."

“What's this, nephew?” It wasn’t a response he anticipated. Jon must be taken aback as well; his head snaps to Theon, own predicament forgotten.

"What about Sansa? Where is she?" he demands urgently.  
  
"I don't know," Theon says miserably. "I lost her. After we escaped Winterfell, we had to run and she was faster. Ramsay was hunting for us, for his bride, but I hope she-"

“She was wed to Ramsay? The man who did this to you?” Jon asks, appalled. “Did he hurt her?” 

“Yes,” Theon replies, voice small. “Oh yes. He doesn’t know how to do anything else.”

Jon Snow’s breath catches.“You helped her escape?” 

“Yes.” Theon looks to grow more determined with the memory. “I did. We escaped together. But she would have done it without my help eventually, I think. She’s her mother’s daughter.”

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs. His dark eyes shine with sadness. “She was just a girl.”

“I know Jon. I’m sorry. I should have killed him when I had the chance.” The words are heavy with guilt.

The two lapse into silence. There is more to it, Euron knows, and he will need time alone with Theon to extract it in confidence, piece by piece. The lad's mind will be the target; his body is too fragile for other methods. It will take a special artistry to do the task right. He may as well start straightaway.

“Take the bastard back to my chamber, lads,” he says to the two crewmen hovering in the shadows. Jon’s distress seems to make him distant; he doesn’t resist when the men haul him away. Euron almost groans with longing. He already feels the loss.  
  
"You're not going to do it, are you? Make him Warden,” Theon says once they are alone.  
  
There's no harm in the telling now. Theon's been broken before, and must sense that Euron plans to do it again. He won't have the chance to betray Euron to his sister.

"No, nephew, and he's already guessed such. It will set the northern lords to argue all the same, and in the end, they themselves take care of the Boltons."  
  
"What will you do with him?"

"I will keep him for as long as it pleases me, nephew. I have a like for collecting rare things of beauty, and there is a unique power in him other men cannot see, including you. You used to look down on him, did you not? I know you would have, bastard that he is. Nevertheless, I doubt his mother was just some whore of Ned Stark's, and I will find the truth of it. Meanwhile he is mine to play with, and oh, nephew, his cries are so sweet. Most like you will hear them echo in your own memories, for I think the Bolton bastard took you so as well."  
  
Theon looks to the floor, stricken, and Euron allows himself a smirk. He’s already hit upon the weakness. It is a skill crafted over years of studying the nature of men.

"Ah, has your experience made you demure, nephew? Perhaps you want to follow Aeron into the priesthood. Your newfound modesty will not serve you here, lad; you will see all. You will attend Jon Snow in Missandei’s absence and you will keep him fed and clean and ready for my amusement. If you are indeed my nephew, _if you are at all_ _a Greyjoy_ , you will come to take pleasure in his pain. It will be your own kind of revenge for all you have endured in the past.” _And hence, at my hands,_ Euron adds privately _._  
  
Theon shakes his head. “I…” He swallows thickly. “And then? What happens when the Boltons are dead and the north is yours?"

“I will wait for Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. All will kneel once they see me defeat the scourge coming from north of the Wall. And it will come. I will see to that."  
  
Theon's eyes bulge. "What...how? Why?"  
  
"The horn of Joramun. Many men claim to have found it, but it is in my possession. Two horns I have, and when they sound I will unleash both ice and fire. And then I shall sit back to watch the world bleed and burn."  
  
"Why? Why would you do that?" Theon repeats, bewildered.  
  
"Because it is past time. Westeros is ripe for a reaving. The unworthy will die howling and I will be King over the lucky who remain. They will love me and fear me, and do anything so long as I wish it. Together we will take Essos and Southros, and more. There are other worlds beyond your imagining, nephew; I have seen them with both eyes."  
  
He snatches up Theon’s untouched wine, and tips his head back to take a long swig. It is a toast, a promise.   
  
"This is just the beginning, nephew. Soon the hells will open, and I will conquer all."


	5. Chapter 5

The maester knocks on Euron’s door at sunrise the next day.

“Enter,” Euron calls. He doesn’t hide his nakedness. Jon Snow he leaves exposed as well. He’s still deeply asleep, legs tangled in the blanket. It was approaching the hour of the owl by the time Euron was done with him, hence the drugged wine was given late. Euron predicts he will be abed ‘til mid morn.

“Your Grace,” the old man says, ducking his head away from the impropriety, “I’ve had a raven from Winterfell. The Boltons have rejected your summons.”

Euron thinks quickly. He could make do without them, but the refusal is an affront.

“Who sent it?”

“It was signed by the bastard, my King. He goes by Ramsay Bolton now. Tommen Baratheon legitimised him at Roose’s request.”

“Then I shall answer him. Come, I will write the words myself.”

The raven is young and after feeding him some raw mutton, the maester declares him fit to fly back to Winterfell straightaway with the message. The bird squawks indignantly on the windowsill, beak twitching, and finally launches to join the yellowing sky.

“You may leave now, Maester Erich,” Euron tells him. The breeze through the window is warm and gentle. The  _Sea Bitch_  will have a peaceful journey. “The Gods will protect you on your path. Remember your task, and watch Lady Asha. I no longer have faith in her loyalty. Harras Harlaw is trustworthy; turn to him if you need guidance.”

“Yes, Your Grace. One more thing: we depart in an hour, and Lady Asha has asked if she can see her brother.”

“Tell her no. I have need of him, and they said their farewells last night.”

Euron had dined with them on the deck, and it was a succinct affair. He allowed Asha and Theon to speak very little, and at nightfall he bid her to leave.

“Take care, Theon,” she had said, taking her brother’s crippled hands in her own. “I will return to you. Meantime, find your strength, and do all you can in the service of the Driftwood Crown.” 

“I will. Don’t worry, sister, I will.” Theon’s calm assurance met Euron’s approval; Asha could not suspect anything was amiss. He let his nephew sleep in peace that night by way of reward.

Once the  _Sea Bitch_  is merely a spot on the morning horizon, he unlocks the door to the third room in his quarters. There, he finds Theon, already awake and sitting up on the cot. In his hands is a tattered book.

“Your Grace,” he says, quickly standing, and at Euron’s frown, gives the book to him. “I found it in one of the tents in Stannis’ war camp after I escaped Winterfell,” he volunteers. “There are pages missing, but I…I like having something of my own to read.”

It’s a history of the Dance of the Dragons, a tale Euron knows well. Rhaenrya and her half-brother Aegon bathed the realm in fire in their battle for the crown. The fool Targaryens sacrificed nearly all of their dragons in their reckless war: Syrax; Vhagar; Sunfyre; Caraxes and Vermithor, all dead, and more. At the finish, only four remained, and within years dragons were gone from Westeros entirely. 

 _Hopefully the so-called Mother of Dragons takes better care of her children_ , Euron thinks, at least until she cedes the beasts to him. She will have little choice in the matter, Unsullied Army or no. Euron has the horn.

The retelling Theon has found is a child’s book. The pictures and prose are lively amid the dirt and scorch marks. It must provide Theon comfort, and as such, he mustn’t be allowed to access it too freely.

“Well, nephew, if you serve me well I shall return to you. I will give you a page for each day you please me. That is a fair bargain, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Theon drops his empty hands to his sides.

“Come. You have much to do. I need to break my fast. When Jon Snow wakes you shall attend to him as well. Two of my men will accompany you always. He was meek with the slave girl but he has no such love for you.”

By noon, Euron is at the markets. With the maester gone, there is no one else amongst the crew with a tongue to haggle. It’s a foreign custom to Euron, only made necessary by the presence of hundreds of armoured guards. Some years ago the people of the Summer Isles managed to band together and fight back against the raiders who fell upon them so often. Now, they were a merchant region and only sold their own slaves, who were typically petty thieves and adulterous wives. Paying the gold price for anything vexes Euron sorely, and he purchases only three: one man for the galley to replace the one who died, and another two women as bed-slaves for the crew to share.

Lastly, he chooses a girl to remind Snow of his obligations. He spies her across the town square, perched delicately upon a step like a dove. An older woman is crouched behind her, twisting the girl’s long brown waves into a thick braid. She is clearly not for sale. She’s a beloved daughter, around fourteen years old and very fair, though not quite Missandei’s equal. He charges his smallest and stealthiest crewmen with stealing her from her family that night. 

His men return with the girl at first light, and, supplies all restocked, they set sail a full day early to get ahead should the Summer Islanders launch a pursuit. Once dusk falls, Euron is satisfied they are safely on course for Pyke without any chasing ships, and he retires early to his bedchamber. Theon is laying the table for supper. Jon sits cross-legged on the bed, as far from the two hovering crewmen as his leash will allow. They’ve told been to ensure the men do not exchange words. The history between Theon and Jon made it unlikely that they would ever conspire together; nevertheless, for his own amusement Euron prefers they maintain their enmity.

He unlocks the leash from the bedhead to draw Jon to rise and plucks a cup from his tied hands. It’s half-full and smells of sweet spice, so Euron drains it, chasing it with an uneaten crust of bread from Jon’s plate.

“You should eat better, lad. I can’t have you wasting away. Do you need me to tell you again what is required of you?”

“He ate some of the mutton and fruit, Your Grace,” Theon supplies quietly. 

“Ah, thank you nephew. Come then both of you. I have had a long day and am in want of good company. I would have you join me at my supper. Theon, pour yourself some wine. It will steady your hands. Jon Snow may have another as well, since in my thirst I took his before he was done.”

Jon regards him with an expression of pure contempt. He plants his feet obstinately and resists Euron’s tug on his leash.

“Bastard, you disappoint me. Tonight I offer you a seat at my table, which is an honour few are afforded. It is a simple courtesy for you to accept. Your failure to remember your lessons is troubling. Although, it may be no fault of yours. Eddard Stark is your father, and it’s clear from how poorly he handled himself in King’s Landing that he was no scholar. You lived amongst the wolves at Winterfell, nephew. Tell me, are all Starks so dim-witted?” 

Theon places three fresh cups on the table. “No, Your Grace. Bran was good at his books. Arya…she was stubborn and clever. She found ways to follow us when we went out hunting, and learned to shoot a bow on her own. Once, when she’d had a fight with her sister, she stole some padded armour and a half-helm and rode out with a visiting nobleman and his party, pretending to be a squire. Lord Stark had to ride out to fetch her the next day.”

Euron watches Jon while Theon speaks. At the mention of the youngest Stark girl, his lips turn up ever so slightly into a half smile.  _A favoured sibling_ , Euron surmises. He’d heard she hadn’t been seen since her father lost his head. Judging by the softness in Jon’s eyes, affection makes him hope his sister lives still. Euron has to admit it’s plausible. Such a resourceful child could surely find a way to disappear in a land littered with orphans. Apparently the oldest girl Sansa had not been so fortunate.

“Then perhaps those children were more Tully than Stark, nephew,” Euron says wryly. “Lord Hoster was a wise man. I met his daughter Catelyn when we escorted you to Winterfell after the rebellion, and her mind was a razor compared to her husband’s. Of course, Hoster’s other two children were fools. One can never tell which seed will fruit well.”

Theon stammers and shakes his head. “No, Your Grace. I’m saying it wrong. Lord Stark was a good man. I didn’t mean…” He takes a breath and begins again. “You might think Eddard Stark made some foolish choices, your Grace, but his son Robb was like a brother to me. He did as his father did: what was right and just. They weren't stupid. The mistake Lord Stark made was thinking other people would be as honourable as him. I think Jon’s the same. And Starks don’t submit easily.”

_That much I know._

Euron sighs. “You leave me no choice, bastard.”

Euron gives Jon’s leash to of one of his crew and strides out, calling for the new slave girl. He drags her in, sobbing, and Jon’s mouth predictably drops open in dismay. The girl twists in Euron’s grip and cries for her mother. He was wrong about her age. She is only twelve. However, her body is that of a woman’s already and she will serve Euron’s purpose well enough. He casts her down roughly, and when she tries to scramble to the door Euron catches her by her dress, tearing it. She wails as Euron unlaces his breeches.

“Leave her be!” Jon shouts angrily.

The girl recognises an ally. She crawls towards him and clutches at his legs. 

“It’s alright,” he reassures her. He faces Euron, glaring. “You don’t need to do this. I’ve seen her now, and you’ve made your point. I’ll do as you ask.”

Euron points to the chair, and Jon lets the crewman lead him to sit. Theon finishes serving the wine and then awkwardly settles on a box drawn up to the table. At Euron’s signal, his men gather up the weeping girl and leave, and he takes his seat as well.

“A toast,” Euron declares, “to the stubbornness and stupidity of the Starks. They are useful qualities in an enemy. Rickard, Brandon, Ned and his oldest boy: they all fashioned their own ends. I thank them for saving me the trouble.”

Jon and Theon do not hold their cups aloft. Euron lets the tiny act of rebellion pass. His mood is lifting. He follows the slide of Jon’s throat as he throws his head back to drink. Euron allows his mind to drift pleasantly, imagining hauling Jon onto his lap and making the lad ride him. It would be special agony for Jon, having to lower his thighs down to impale himself, tilting his own hips rhythmically to deepen the repeated invasion. He’d have to bite his lip to keep from screaming, and when he could no longer hold back his cries he would try to hide behind a curtain of black curls, cheeks stained with shame. Euron has often seen him thus, defiant and distraught, feeling his humiliation anew each time he submits. Like a maid being deflowered again and again.

Euron drowns the thought in a generous swig of wine. It is a captivating idea he will keep for another time. Instead he pours Jon more wine, and watches him gulp the second cup down and slam it on the table.

“See there, Jon Snow? I am a gracious host. That wine is from Braavos. A fine vintage and one I rarely open. However, I will not let you drink yourself into a stupor. I would question you tonight.”

Euron asks simple things at the outset, in between mouthfuls of bread and meat, about the people of Winterfell and the nature of the lands around. Euron hasn't been north for more than ten years; he had no need or want to do so until now. Sometimes Jon answers, always curt, and other times his nephew adds in more detail.

“Everything is covered in snow now in the north. I’m not sure how far south it goes.” Theon says in response to Euron’s inquiry. “I didn’t notice it at first. It’s been freezing in Winterfell for months and I didn’t see the sky that often.”

Euron feigns astonishment. “That is terrible, nephew! The bastard kept you cold and confined? Vile man! He did not warm your chamber at night?” 

“I wasn’t…I didn’t sleep in a chamber. I slept in the kennels with Ramsay’s dogs.”

That bit truly is a surprise to Euron. Why keep a bedslave so far away and filthy? He turns his mind from the question. Trying to reason through another man’s strange desires is a path to madness.

“Such cruelty will be repaid, nephew,” Euron tells him, and it’s somewhat true. The Boltons will live to regret their presumptuous and inconvenient takeover of the north. “You will see. I will have you and Jon by my side as I retake your childhood home.” He grins at Jon’s sceptically raised eyebrow. “You doubt me? A shame. I thought you would have relished the chance to wield your Valyrian sword.”

Theon sits up, expression curious. “A Valyrian sword? Is it Ice? Did they send it back with Lord Stark’s bones, Jon? Ramsay told me Tywin Lannister had it melted down. He knew I used to carry it for Lord Stark, and that it would upset me to hear it was destroyed.”

“Not Ice,” Euron corrects him. “I have seen that mighty blade and I doubt this lad could use it. His sword is made for a smaller man. Let me show you.” 

The oaken cabinet opposite the bed is well over 500 years old and huge, stretching from floor to ceiling. Euron found it in a palace on his first raid on the shores of Essos, and was enamoured of the piece. The gilded paintings on the doors portray a chaotic battle on a mountainside, dead men and brutalised women strewn over the rocks, dogs lapping at their ravaged flesh. Each tormented visage and severed limb is exquisitely crafted, real blood rather than paint highlighting the savagery. The artist’s mind must have been a fascinating place of frenzied depravity. Euron pauses to appreciate the work before he unlocks the doors to retrieve the blade. 

He presents the sword with a flourish and a bow. “See here, Jon? It has been nearby all this time. Recall all your days here, confined in this room. Do you think you may have missed an opportunity to reclaim your weapon and fight your way out?”

It wouldn’t have been possible. Even if Jon had somehow determined the sword’s location, he’s been too tightly bound and closely guarded to make use of the knowledge. His sudden pallor means he must think otherwise, though, and it makes Euron laugh.

“Ah, Jon Snow. You are a delight. You think your sullen demeanour and pretty pout keep your true feelings hidden? You are an open book, boy. Taunting you is an easy task.” 

He beckons to his nephew. “Theon. Come and feel the weight and balance. It’s a lighter blade than Eddard’s great sword, made for a hand-and-a-half. A bastard sword for a bastard, do you see?”

Theon grips it as best he can and turns it over to study the wolf pommel.

“Ghost,” Theon murmurs. 

“What’s that now?” 

“He was Jon Snow’s direwolf,” Theon explains. “We found some pups, one for each of the Stark children.”

Euron waves him along impatiently. “Yes, nephew, this much I knew.” The news that direwolves had been found south of the Wall intrigued his wizards greatly. “I was told most of them had died. This is a likeness of Jon’s, you say?”

“Yes. Jon found a pup that had crawled away from its dead mother. A white one, the runt of the litter. He named it Ghost.”

 _And there is another piece._  This is the creature Euron has seen oft in his dreams.

“You didn’t have this when you left for the Night’s Watch,” Theon remarks to Jon, a tinge of awe in his voice.

Euron takes the sword from Theon’s hands. He locks it back in the cabinet for now and makes a mental note to relocate it to one of the chests in the hold later.

“Well, nephew, he has acquired it since. Earned, I think, not stolen, nor lifted from a corpse. It’s no fresh forged blade but the pommel is unique. It was custom made for you, was it not, Snow? Likely some Lord gave it to you as thanks for saving his life.” He favours Jon with a leer. “Or some other service. I hear the Wall is cursed cold.”

An indignant flush creeps up Jon’s neck. Euron has something more explicit at the tip of his tongue when Theon interrupts, spoiling the moment.

“The sword was the one thing you could match Robb in, Jon,” he says softly. “Robb was taller and stronger than both of us. He was a better horseman, and was the Winterfell champion with the lance. The only thing I could ever best him at was shooting. I was good with the bow.” He flexes his remaining fingers sadly. “I can’t even do that anymore.”

Euron considers this nephew. He speaks with a northern inflection, no trace of the rounded, haughty vowels of his father and sister. It is not the only change in him. As a boy, his hair was the colour of golden sand. Now it is more an earthen brown, like the mud of Winterfell has stuck fast. He is angular and expressive. Attractive in his own way despite his frailty. He can see why the Bolton bastard held him for so long. Theon wears his torment openly, green eyes red-rimmed with chronic misery. It would enhance his appeal to a certain kind of man. 

Euron fills Theon’s cup to the brim. “Do you miss him, Theon, this Robb Stark? You speak fondly of him. How devastated he must have been at your betrayal. You turned your back on him and the kindness his father showed you. Did Lord Stark’s death cut you deep as well? I think it did. I think you mourn the Starks more than you grieve your own father’s death.” 

“Ned Stark was more of a father to me than Balon ever was,” Theon says hotly. It’s the first real piece of spirit Euron’s seen in him. “You must have hated my father too. Everyone knows you killed him.”

Euron doesn’t spend the effort to deny it. “So I did. But you mistake me. I did not hate your father. Your grandfather Quellon was a weak man who rejected our ancestry and sought to tame us. Balon brought back the Old Way, which suited me greatly. Later he banished me and it set me on my path to distant lands and glory. So no, lad, I hold no grudge against him. I forgave him long ago for taking Victarion’s side in our quarrel.”

“Quarrel,” Theon repeats, neutrally. “Yes, Asha told me about it. She said you dishonoured his wife, and he beat her to death when he found out about it.”

“Aye, nephew. I did him a service. I gave the slut something she didn’t even know she wanted. He should have been grateful that I revealed her true nature to him. Do you disapprove of me Theon?” Euron asks mildly. “Would you speak so to your King?’

“No, Your Grace. You're right.” Theon rushes to say, and despite the quake in his voice Euron can pick the insincerity. “Victarion should have thanked you for your generosity.” 

Jon Snow’s insolence is less subtle. “I saw what you did. You showed me, remember, through your black eye. You raped her. You raped your own brother’s wife, and she was killed for it.” The accusation is heavy with disgust.

“The bitch wasn’t my blood, boy. And if she was, what of it? Victarion did for her, not me. You think me evil for what I did to her? It happens every day, bastard, everywhere in the world, and worse things besides. If I am a monster, what is the man who killed Robb and Catelyn Stark? I heard Walder Frey had the head of the direwolf sewn in place of Robb Stark’s own. The freakish thing was paraded around the Twins until the rot set in, and all the Freys and Boltons cheered.”

Jon sucks in a breath. That part must be news to him.

“Greywind.” Theon’s tone is almost reverent. “He and Robb were always together. He would join us in battle and then feast on the horses of the men he’d killed.”

“So I have heard.” A direwolf would be a fearsome sight on the battlefield. The white one that lopes through Euron visions is a massive animal with jaws that could tear a man’s arm from his shoulder. In his dreams, he’s usually chained, champing at the leash and snarling. A few times Euron has seen him running free, magnificent ruff stained red with the blood of prey.  _Ghost_. Euron had been thinking of the direwolf as a symbol of Jon, reluctantly bent to his will. To discover it is a real beast that could be found and controlled sends a surge of excitement through Euron’s heart.

“This direwolf, Jon,” he asks eagerly. “Does he live?” 

Jon takes far too long to answer for Euron’s liking, the boy’s lips pressed in wilful dissent. It shreds the last threads of Euron’s patience. He snatches Jon’s chin to prise his mouth open, and is taken aback at the sight of Jon stiffening into a taut bow, eyelids fluttering. 

Euron shakes the lad’s shoulders to no avail. His mind is quite gone. “Nephew! What have you done? Did you poison the wine?” 

“No…I didn’t! There was nothing in it, nothing! It came right out of the barrel you told me to get it from!” 

 _The fever._  One of Euron’s young brothers had similar attacks after his childhood pox. The pox was common enough. All children suffered it at some point. Urrigon however, was gravelly ill and was not the same boy when he awoke. His wit and instincts became blunted and he developed a type of falling sickness. The fits were unpredictable, and all the maester could do was cradle the boy’s head as he thrashed and force a belt between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue. 

Whatever has befallen the bastard it shows no sign of abating.  _Does he live?_  His own words echo in his ears. Urri’s affliction made him frail. He died of apoplexy brought on by a corrupted wound, one of Aeron’s making.

 _No_ , Euron thinks wildly,  _I’m not finished with him._ Instinctively he strikes out, and it has the intended effect: Jon rocks back with the force of the blow and then gasps and heaves over, shaking wordlessly. At last he lifts his head to look at Euron through his lashes, and there’s a strange red light behind his eyes, predatory and endless. His voice drops to a low growl.

“Yes, he’s alive.”

For the first time in years, Euron feels a spike of uneasiness. There’s something happening here past his reach, and it’s sickening, like the world has pitched sideways and he has no purchase. It cannot stand.  _It will not stand._

Jon’s leash is lying loose and trailing down his back. Euron catches it and pulls down hard to yank him from the chair. He drags the bastard clear of the table and shoves Jon’s head down, folding him over on his knees. It’s a parody of supplication, hands clasped together, forehead pressed the floor. Jon resists, pushing back and grunting. 

“Remember, lad,” is all Euron needs to say, and the struggling stops. After that, it’s short work to cut his breeches away, and then Euron can run his hands freely down Jon’s narrow hips to his backside. Some of the wounds have opened again with the stretch, and his hiss of pain is a lovely sound. Euron dabs at the blood, smearing streaks down the back of Jon’s thighs, and dips two fingers into his arse. The young man groans, and already there’s a fine tremor in his outstretched shoulders.

“Boy, I see you. Do not move.” It’s directed at Theon, who’s leapt up with the commotion. He’s standing in front of his overturned chair, suspended in fright. It’s the perfect vantage point for what Euron intends next.

He unlaces his breeches to free himself and forces in. Jon cries out with it, breath hitching with each push. Once seated, Euron braces on Jon’s back to address his nephew.

“Is this familiar to you, little Theon?”

He recoils as if slapped, and whimpers as Euron lifts his patch to free his mind’s eye. Theon saw it as a child and must remember it, as all men do. Euron sends him a wild grin, then fixes down upon the appealing sweep of Jon’s spine and drives in deep. Power thrums within him, arcing from his true eye to the body beneath and back through Euron’s palms. Jon’s sharp intake of breath tells Euron he feels it too. His fingers scrabble uselessly on the wooden floor.

“Did he do this to you, the Bolton bastard? Ramsay Snow?” Euron settles into a rhythm, hands firm at Jon’s hips.

“He…he…” 

“He did, I think. I see it in you. He has left his mark.” He punctuates the statement with a particularly rough thrust and is rewarded with a low moan. 

The truth is plain. Theon shudders and casts his gaze to the ground.

“No. Watch.”

Theon obeys, cheeks wet with anguish. Euron adjusts his grip on Jon’s hips to deepen the assault, and the young man does actually scream then, a sweet and desperate noise Euron hasn’t heard from him before. In that instant, Euron slips into his vision state. It’s not his dream. It must be one of Jon’s. He’s on a boat, chest aching, watching with mounting horror as an ice-wrought creature returns the dead to life. The creature has fixed its cold stare on him, unwavering, and there’s recognition there, like it sees something worthy. The creature is challenging him. It wants him, and whether that’s as an ally or a foe or something else, Euron can’t quite discern, but its desire is bare and sharp. 

The strength of it sends him flying back into himself, breathless. He withdraws and wrests Jon over on his back, and he sees the truth of it in his eyes. It wasn’t merely a dream. It’s a true memory, laced with terror and burned forever in Jon’s mind.

“You saw what happened at Hardhome,” Jon says hoarsely. “You saw _him_. You’ve seen what’s to come.”

 _Another enemy revealed._ The creature is an ice monster from the tales of old that Euron knew had risen in the north. The one who locked eyes with Jon had the bearing of a king, and it's calling to Jon still, summoning winter to stretch across the seas to search for him. With his black eye Euron can perceive frozen tendrils crawling up Jon’s legs and belly, snaking in his hair, probing and pulling.

 _No, he is mine._  He swipes at the air and the icy strands dissipate into smoke.

“Let them come,” he hisses. “I have you, and soon I will have my dragons. I will destroy them.”

The fire of conviction impels him forward, and Jon jerks when Euron enters him again.

“They will come for you Jon Snow,” Euron promises. “The Night’s King has a lust it seeks to sate, and it reaches for you even now.”

Jon shivers, skin prickling with a sudden chill, and his face contorts in pain. _There._  The bastard feels it. The magic is so thick around them Euron thinks Theon might sense it as well, but when he turns to him his nephew is staring blankly past them, unaware. His disengagement is practiced and impermissible.

Euron stabs in brutally, and Jon arches his back and swears. 

“Shhh, bastard,” Euron croons. “Such words befoul your pretty mouth. I will not have that tonight. Come closer, Theon,” he calls, and it startles the lad out of his trance. “Kneel beside him.”

Theon creeps to them slowly, eyes turned away from Jon’s distress. 

“Cover his mouth, lad.” 

Theon’s head snaps to Euron. “Please, no,” he pleads. “Don’t make me part of this.” 

“Do it. Or do you want to hear him scream? Do you want to hear his suffering aloud as payment for your own?” 

“No,” he whispers. “Gods, no."  

“Theon,” Jon says softly, and whether it’s a plea for Theon to refuse or an expression of forgiveness for what’s to come, Euron cannot tell.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Theon moans brokenly, and links his maimed hands to press down on Jon’s mouth. It muffles Jon's next cry, and all the ones after. The silence is shattered only when Euron bellows his release.

Euron keeps his nephew in the chamber that night. Jon grows drowsy with his valerian and poppy wine, and Euron bids Theon to lie alongside him in the bed. The lad withdraws from Jon’s bare body at first, then at Euron’s bark he curls to him, arms tight around the sleeping man’s waist. Theon's anxiety seems to seep away at the contact, and a short time later he drifts to sleep as well, pale eyelashes crusted with salt. They are lovely entwined thus, Jon’s young, fresh skin highlighting Theon’s pretty patchwork of terrible wounds, and together they remind Euron of all he has wrought and has yet to do. He has left kingdoms and people in beautiful ruins all over the world, and there are stunning lands still unblemished and awaiting his glorious arrival. All of the pieces are nearly set. 

Euron slips under the sheet to join them. His nephew does look so like Aeron, or at least how Aeron did as a youth, before lunacy and time ravaged him. He strokes Theon’s hair and then moves down to skim over the place between his legs. Through the breeches, Euron can’t make out the exact nature of the mutilation. He will have to make time to examine him properly. For now, he drapes his arm over Theon's and rests his hand on Jon’s breast. The steady beat of his heart lulls Euron to sleep. 

On awakening at dawn, he figures instantly something is amiss. The ship is listing wrong and sitting heavier than it should. Soon they discover they’re taking on water through a hole Euron can tell has been deliberately made. It takes hours to get rid of the water accumulated in the hold. It’s early afternoon when they start back on their path, and by then a longship is chasing them, and gaining.

The ship’s design is unmistakable. It’s from the Shield Islands, and Euron can recognise many of the men aboard. They’re Humfrey Hewett’s vassals, itching to avenge their dead lord. He counts a handful of Summer Islanders as well, presumably seeking the girl. The ship must have followed the  _Sea Bitch_ to the Summer Isles, and then onward to discover the  _Silence_  here. There would have to be a spy in Asha’s crew, but Euron is certain this can’t be her doing. She would never sanction such an incompetent and futile measure.

Their attempt at boarding the  _Silence_  is poorly executed and swiftly crushed. The slave girl's father, the ship’s captain and four nobles Euron separates from the others and the rest he leaves to his crew. It’s not a mercy. Euron’s men fall upon them, roaring, slicking flesh and entrails across the red deck. Euron is more sober in dealing with the captain, dismantling the man with careful precision. He reveals the plot fully, given the appropriate encouragement, and among the names of the conspirators is Lady Hewett herself, and Lord Osbert Serry of Southshield. The man must have slithered back to the Shield Islands from his coward’s lair in the Reach. It seems they will have to stop at the Islands on their way to Pyke.

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time Euron is done. The five men remaining are struck dumb with dread of their expected fate. They'll be spared it. As ordered, his nephew and three of Euron's men emerge from below deck with the slave girl and Jon Snow. He’s been dressed in the black armour of Euron’s crew: padded gambeson, boots and breeches, and a boiled leather doublet with a black steel vest covering him from neck to waist. On his chest Euron’s sigil - two crows holding a crown above a red eye – blazes in crimson.

The girl is hollow with shock, barely turning her head when her father calls her name. Jon takes in the scene sombrely, cataloguing each slain man and their injuries. His dark eyes linger on the pieces of the captain. He would have heard the man’s screams from Euron’s chamber. The captain never stopped, not for all those hours, not until he died. Euron grudgingly admired him for his persistence. 

“Jon Snow! You have fairness in your bones. These men attacked my ship and sought death for me and my crew. How would you judge their crimes? What should their punishment be?”

“None,” Jon replies, without hesitation. “A man trying to kill you sounds like one after my own heart.” 

“No, lad, that is not the right answer. I took the Shield Islands by conquest. I killed their Lord as was my right, and now his people are my people. These men have betrayed me. How would Lord Stark have dealt with a traitor? How did you, as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch? What does your honour tell you?” 

“You don’t know anything of my father’s honour. Or mine,” Jon says darkly.

“He didn’t just kill him, Lord Commander,” one of the nobles breaks in. Euron almost laughs; the man has registered Jon's title and thinks he may truly have the power to free them. The ropes at his wrists must have escaped the man’s notice. “He debased our Lord’s wife and daughters. He put all the Hewett heirs to the sword. Even the babes!”

"He stole my daughter," the Summer Islander adds quietly. "My two sons have died here today."

"I'm sorry for all you've lost." Jon’s voice rings with compassion. "If I could, I’d help you avenge your dead.” 

“But you cannot, bastard,” Euron warns. “And these men will pay for their folly. I am their King, and no king can tolerate treason. It is not for you to decide if they will live. I am asking you how they should die."

"The girl's father-"

"-attacked my ship on open water. His death is also assured; the Drowned God will demand it. You heard how the captain suffered. I could do the same to each of these men. Unless you choose differently.” 

It’s a while before Jon speaks. His clenched hands reveal the conflict within. 

“If they must die, they should die quickly. Cleanly,” he says finally. His shoulders drop under the weight of resignation. He must realise what comes next.

“Good lad. That sounds like northern justice. And of course, the man who passes the sentence...” 

Jon closes his eyes and nods. His next words are grave. 

“Bring me my sword.”

Theon’s already at Jon’s side, bowing as he offers the blade. Euron’s men spread out into a circle, pointing their own weapons, warily watching Jon tip the sword with his bound hands. 

“Fear not, lads. He will do his duty. These brave men will only suffer if he does not. I’m sure he will strike them down swift and true."

He cocks his head at Snow with a smirk. "But this will not be one of your gloomy northern executions. I think we all agree these men should have the last honour of fighting for their lives. I would see you swing your sword, bastard. I will judge if you deserved such a kingly gift.”

The five captives are refurnished with their arms. Jon’s hands, Euron leaves bound. It would be tempting fate to unfetter him entirely, and regardless, Euron suspects it will be little disadvantage against these tired men. They are not warriors. The Shield Island nobles are soft, spoiled and unused to battle, and it may be the first time the girl’s merchant father has ever lifted a weapon. The light armour will protect Jon’s body if he’s careless, and if he appears to be losing, Euron is ready to bring the exercise to a halt. He doubts such intervention will be required.

It all falls out as he predicts. At Euron’s nod, the prisoners advance on their target, and even as a group they’re no match for the agility and speed of Jon Snow. Euron thinks of Eddard Stark, and his great sword. Ice had impressive reach, and Stark’s hack and slash style was so powerful that few men could withstand his attack. Stark’s bastard son is slender, and while his movements recall his father’s, there's a grace to him that Eddard lacked. Whatever he was taught by Winterfell’s master at arms, he’s adapted it into something faster and more fluid. He uses his whole body for each thrust and sweep, like he’s one with the sword. 

He spins away from the first man’s axe and shoulders him back at the Summer Islander, leaving them stumbling. Another man charges, and Jon meets the blade with a grunt and ducks below the man’s next clumsy swing. In less than half a heartbeat Jon’s sword is buried in the man’s chest. The first man attacks again. Jon’s response is a flash, almost blurred to Euron’s blue eye as he parries and draws back to cut down in a wide, clean arc. The man is dead before he drops to the deck.

It may as well have been an execution in the end. Jon dispatches the four nobles easily one by one and without joy. The last man standing is the Summer Islander. Jon has disarmed him, and has backed him up against the rail, sword pointed at his heart. The man drops his hands in defeat and his daughter keens, a terrible, high pitched sound that makes the hairs on the back of Euron’s neck rise.

Jon’s face is grim. He leans into the man and whispers low in his ear. Euron can only guess at the words that make the man’s eyes fill with grateful tears. He dies with them on his cheeks.

At the finish, Jon stands silently over the corpses, hands and arms steeped in blood. His black hair whips around him in the sea breeze and his features are shadowed in sorrow. The last light of the sun glints on his sword and makes it seem aflame. He surrenders the blade to Theon with melancholy reluctance.

A premonition comes to Euron then, of Jon standing exactly so on the _Silence_ , sword in hand and Theon at his back. Jon's chest is bare and a crossbow hangs loosely in Theon's grip. More bodies lie at their feet, men with the mark of the flayed man upon their chests, and others cloaked in Arryn blue. An Ironborn fleet is just visible behind them, haloed with ash grey clouds. 

 _Yes,_ Euron's heart sings triumphantly. _My weapons_. In the vision, Theon's eyes are the colour of a bleak sea; he must have broken completely and committed himself to Euron's cause. Beside him, Jon Snow trembles with the bitterness of rage. He is more than the power he lends to Euron’s visions, more than bait for the North and the Ice world beyond. He’s an instrument of death forged by Euron’s own hand, commanded to his will.

A knight of black iron. 


	6. Chapter 6

Theon takes well to serving. He obeys Euron’s every order like the good dog Ramsay Bolton has trained him to be. He fetches and carries, cleans and writes, and with each task the tremor in his hands lessens. As the days pass his body heals too. He fills out a little; the grey cast of his face fades; and healthy pink tissue begins to grow in from the fringes of his wounds. They will take months to close over. Where he’s been flayed, at best, he’ll be left with pearly scars rimming filmy islands of skin, barely covering the muscle beneath. This, Euron knows from years of observation. Since inflicting them, he has followed the progress of his wizards’ injuries with interest.

Theon’s mind is another matter. Though he earns many pages of his precious book, Euron thinks his nephew longs most for the comfort of another, and it’s a source of ongoing torment. At night, Theon can’t hide his eagerness to climb abed with Jon and cling to him. Jon never stirs at Theon’s shy touch, but he objected the first morning he woke to it. His emergence from drugged sleep was slow, and when he became fully aware of Theon’s arms wrapped around his waist, he shoved him away with a shocked yelp. Euron set upon him instantly.

“Do you prefer my embrace, Jon Snow?” Euron asked, as he sunk deep inside him. Jon’s only answer was to dig his fingers into his palms. He never pushed Theon from him thereafter.

The closeness confuses them, which is quite the point. Some nights, Euron finds them regarding each other with pity, so he tips the scales to reset the distrust by making Theon tie Jon down for Euron to take him. Theon stretches Jon cruelly under Euron’s instruction, in whatever position is to Euron’s taste that night. It lays both men bare, in more ways than one. Jon’s body is lovely, vulnerable and _whole_ , and Euron knows it tortures Theon to be reminded of how ruined he is, how diminished. There’s something else too, that Euron notes carefully: the conspicuous heat that rises in Theon’s cheeks with each of Jon’s pained moans. Jon doesn’t always see, for sometimes he flits in and out of consciousness. But whenever he is awake, his eyes fall upon Theon, at once imploring and recriminating. A look of tearful heartbreak is all Theon ever gives Jon in return.

The night before they arrive at the Shield Islands, Euron’s great chamber rustles with ravens. His nephew brings him six all told: one from Maester Erich; one from Pyke; one from Nute the barber, the new lord of Oakenshield; another from the same castle signed by Falia Flowers; one from Wyman Manderly and the last from Ramsay Bolton. While he tended to Ramsay’s correspondence, Theon can’t have been permitted to handle the Winterfell birds, because there’s no recognition as he hands the Bolton raven over.

Euron puts aside all except the two scrolls from the north. These he considers, and then retrieves a large map from one of the chests. He studies it intently, noting the detail of the northwest coastline, calculating the distances from several points. Satisfied, he takes the quill and inkpot his nephew has readied and composes his answers. He releases the birds himself.

A score of ironmen greet him at the wharf of what is now named Nute’s Town. Falia Flowers is there as well. She’s styled herself as the Lady of Oakenshield since Euron elevated her from her serving status, and Nute’s raven suggests she’s been driving him to madness. Falia has managed to override his modest wife’s every request, effectively ruling the household. Euron is not at all inclined to do anything about the matter. If Nute cannot manage to muzzle a mere woman, it was his own burden to bear.

Forest green velvet hugs Falia’s figure, and her auburn hair is caught in a clasp of emeralds. She steps ahead of Nute to sing out to Euron a joyful greeting. 

“My King! Oakenshield welcomes your return!”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Euron says, theatrically, taking her offered hand for a kiss. “And you, Nute. Come, let us not tarry here. I am famished.” 

Falia titters girlishly and takes his arm. “Yes my lord, I can imagine. I have quite the feast waiting for you.”

“I expected nothing less. Lads! Secure the ship and then join us at the castle. Bring the slave girl, my nephew and the bastard. Nute, my raven must have arrived with your orders by daybreak. I should have passed your ship on my way into the harbour.”

“I stayed to received you, Your Grace. I thought it more appropriate if you were met by the Lord of this island, rather than its mistress,” the man says with hardly concealed ire. The childish way he stomps off to do Euron’s bidding is decidedly comical.

Euron’s chamber is opulently furnished. There are intricately patterned rugs and bold tapestries, jewelled mirrors and heavy golden vases. It’s obviously Falia’s newly extravagant taste. She mewls, feverish in her need, so he wastes little time pushing her down over the bed and fucking her into the silk sheets. Euron pulls away after he spends, and she produces a petulant whine.

“My King,” she wheedles, “Please, come back to me. I’m not done.”

“ _I_ am, girl,” Euron says brusquely. “I have much to attend to this day. Finish yourself off.” 

Falia sulkily lifts up on her elbows. She crumples her dress at her waist, displaying her cunt, and places two fingers over her bud. She does not get far. A rap at the door makes her snatch her hand back, and she smooths her skirts down with frustration.

At Euron’s call, his men enter, leading Jon Snow on his leash.

“Has Nute as sailed for Greenshield?” Euron asks, taking the chain from Petyr. The man nods. “Good. You may leave.”

“Your Grace,” Falia asks, clambering off the bed. “Who is this?”

“It is none of your concern, dear,” Euron replies. Jon doesn’t acknowledge Falia, choosing to keep his familiar murderous glare fixed on Euron.

Falia bites her lip. She brushes Jon’s cheek, and to Euron’s amusement, he slants a scowl at her through his lashes. He would no doubt be mortified to know how fetching it is. Falia doesn’t miss it though, and her brow creases worriedly. 

“He’s beautiful,” she says after a long pause, with no small amount of resentment. 

Euron curses inwardly. He recognised her latent malevolence instantly on meeting her, and she’d proved his instincts right by devising new and inventive ways to degrade Hewett’s women. In addition, she’d become a useful instrument here in the Shield Islands, having put her persuasive skills to use on various minor lords to dig out the location of Lord Serry, amongst others. She is a more reliable informant than Nute, and no matter how much it irks him to pander to her, he cannot afford to lose her loyalty.

“Falia,” he reassures her, “No one can compare to you. He is important to me for many reasons. I do not keep him purely to satisfy my baser cravings. Nevertheless, think you will find he is very good for that indeed.”

That brings an impish smile to her lips. “Oh my King! Do you mean I can play with him?”

“Aye. You have done me great service. For the next three days and nights he must abide here whilst I am away. You may have him while I conduct my business. Two of my men will stand guard at the door if you have need of them.” 

“Oh!” She claps, delighted. She pushes some of Jon’s loose curls behind his ear thoughtfully. “He can be my new handmaid. He would look so pretty in a dress. I might be able to make his waist as small as mine with a corset.” 

Jon looks aghast at the suggestion. Euron tends to agree.

“I think it best not to try such a thing, Falia,” Euron advises. “He’s likely to strangle you with the laces.” 

“So he won’t obey me?” 

Euron shrugs. “I can make no absolute guarantees in my absence. My men will help you if you need to restrain him, and he should know what will happen if he hurts you. In the end I think he will have little trouble doing most things to appease a pretty girl’s whims. His bastard birth makes him a carnal animal. Unlike you he fights it, but his blood will tell. Just try not to exhaust him.”

Falia tries to fondle Jon through his breeches, and he twists away with a vehement objection. “I will _not_ – “

Euron cuts off the rest with a terse warning. “Don’t disappoint her, bastard.”

He leaves them alone and joins his men on the battlements. The first man brought to him is Lord Serry, who had been captured some days ago thanks to Falia’s information. Euron impales him living upon a spike. The other co-conspirators meet the same fate, and by evening, the castle walls are lined with twelve of them, all in different stages of excruciating death. Lady Hewett, Euron learns, threw herself off the highest tower on receipt of the news that the attack on the _Silence_ had failed. Her daughters disappeared that same night. He puts the head guardsman on a spike as well for his carelessness. 

Following a late supper, he returns to his chamber. He stood to deliver his verdicts and dealt the justice with his own hands, and now his feet ache from hours spent upon unforgiving stone. It is the price he pays whenever he is ashore for too long; his legs are used to the roll of the sea. If the Seastone Chair were not carved from rock, he would have had it placed aboard the _Silence_ long ago.

Pink Petyr is a ghoulish apparition at the end of the hall, sputtering candlelight throwing all but his bare jaw into shade. His upper lip is retracted in a semblance of mirth, and Euron understands why. Falia’s ecstasy is audible twenty paces away. Euron can feel the ribbon of air carrying her voice, undulating and unrestrained. A woman so lacking in temperance would normally repulse him, but even in her rapture there is an undertow of wickedness he can only admire.

In the room, the hearth fire has dwindled to embers and the air is thick with the scent of spilled wine and ash. Falia is profiled in the dim light of the window, posed in debauched elation. She’s splayed on a velvet-lined chair, hair dripping with sweat, leash wrapped tight around her wrist. Jon Snow is on his knees, and like Falia, he is naked and glistening. His head buried between her legs.

“My King,” she calls to Euron as he approaches. The muscles in Jon’s back tense up as she does so, like he means to lift up, and Falia pulls the leash to signal him to stay. She is close. “My King, my King, my King!” She tosses her head back with her peak and issues a long, low groan.

“Oh Your Grace,” Falia sighs when she’s able, “We’ve been having such fun.” 

“I couldn’t have guessed.”

Falia lets the chain slacken and allows Jon to rest back. His eyes are dipped in apparent shame, and there’s no mistaking his condition: he’s hard, body afire and powerless against his own arousal. If he was of a mind to, Euron could have tried to assuage Snow’s distress. No man could be near such passion and remain unaffected, and Jon is no different. Instead, Euron laughs and slaps him on the back.

“The seas take you lad! You’re even miserable after bringing a woman pleasure. What troubles you now? Your Night’s Watch vow? It is an absurd regulation, bastard, and need I point out, they relieved you of your duty.” 

“Thank the Gods for that!” Falia giggles. “I thought he was going to be so dull at the beginning. All he did was pout and snarl and tell me stupid stories about monsters in the north. I think he hoped I’d help him escape from you. I grew terribly bored of his complaining, so I stuffed his mouth with my small clothes.” Her smile is mischievous. “I think he might have liked that.” 

“Perhaps.” The idea of Jon bound and choking on a soiled undergarment brings a rush of blood to Euron’s loins. “And it seems you’ve discovered another way to keep him quiet. Did you enjoy that as well, bastard?”

Falia shifts aside so Euron can drop to his haunches to get a better view of Jon’s flushed face.

“Aye, you did, and you hate yourself for it. You hold back, and your vows are not the reason. You’ve devoted yourself to another, is that it? Did you want to keep yourself chaste for her?” 

He lays his palm flat on Jon’s cheek, fingertips prickling on his hot skin, and Euron unveils his mind’s eye to probe further. Euron’s mind touches Jon’s. His fervour makes him easily assailable, and memories float at the surface, ripe to be plucked.

 _Red._ At first all Euron can see is red: blood and silk and fire and hair. The images sharpen into figures, each accompanied by a unique kind of longing. One Euron recognises as Catelyn Stark, the russet of her hair as cold as her unloving expression. Jon absorbs her disdain, wishing for something more. A handsome young man with chestnut curls smiles sadly, clasping Jon in farewell. The former King in the North and Jon shared a love stronger than Euron had with any of his true brothers. A beautiful girl with long flaming tresses shines amid the grey of Winterfell, speaking dreamily of princes and happy endings. Jon yearns to protect her. _Sansa_. She is enchanting. If he’d had the same opportunity as Ramsay Bolton, Euron too would have relished the chance to strip her of her innocence. Next is a woman with hair the same hue as her gown; that of burnt blood. Her heart pulses under her breast and through Jon’s fingers. “There’s power in you,” she says, eyes glittering with desire. Hers is the face Jon sees when he’s pulled from the void of death.

Last is a woman kissed by fire, red mane knotted and dusted with snowflakes. She is spirited and addictive, and taunts Jon until he breaks. The vision is tainted with grief.

“They’re all beyond your reach, boy,” Euron tells Jon bluntly, “And your wildling lover is dead. Consider it a lucky turn. No matter how talented your tongue, she wouldn’t have kept faith with you.”

Jon jolts, wresting his head from Euron’s touch. “Fuck you, Greyjoy,” he enunciates deliberately, eyes narrowed to flints.

Euron doesn’t think, just strikes out with a closed fist. Jon reels and Euron catches him by the collar and pushes him, dazed, into Falia. Euron’s need overtakes him and in his haste he fumbles with his laces. In the end he doesn’t bother to free himself completely, settling rather to rut against Jon, at the same time reaching to take him in hand. Falia reads Euron’s mind. She slips down to the floor to join him, dropping light kisses on Jon’s throat, covering Euron’s hand with her own. She utters filthy things only a base-born woman could know, and it’s not long before Jon is throbbing and twitching between them. 

Euron gathers the two bodies to him and lets the rest of the room drop away. His focus drills down to the taste of Jon’s skin and Falia’s shameless sprawl underneath them. He presses Jon into her, pushing both down to the floor so he can rub harder into the sweet curve of Jon’s arse, and he rides the wave Jon’s humiliation that way, rough and frenzied, close and fierce. Falia’s grinding her mound against Jon with each of Euron’s thrusts, clutching Jon’s arms and squirming. She crests and wails for a second time, and under her high pitch, Euron hears another sound: a reluctant, deep cry of release. Jon spills into Euron’s hand. 

Euron spends quickly after. He swipes his fingers in the slick he has made on Jon’s back and brings it Jon’s lips. He recoils, but has nowhere to go except into Euron’s arms. Euron wrenches him around by his shoulders and forces his fingers into Jon’s mouth. 

“Suck, bastard,” he says menacingly. “I will not tell you twice.” 

Jon does, eyes filled with raw venom. He scrapes his teeth lightly on Euron’s fingers as he sucks, and it’s probably instinctive, the way he curls his tongue around them, all the more alluring for how unaware he is of the seductive effect. At Euron’s barked command, he swallows, jaw tight with revulsion. Euron does not restrain the urge to take him again. 

The next morning brings Nute’s return from Greenshield with his prisoner. Euron receives them seated upon the Lord’s chair on the dais in the great hall. The tattered blue and brown banner of Hewett has been spread under his feet, and Jon is hunched there, drawn up close to Euron’s heels. The man Euron is expecting would balk at indecency, so he’d allowed Theon to dress Jon in grey woollen breeches and a thin white undershirt unlaced at the neck. Euron notes with amusement the young man must have grown accustomed to being half-clothed or naked, for he appears to be unperturbed by the chill that has crept into the castle overnight. Euron rests his hand on the back of Jon’s neck possessively. The iron collar feels like ice under his palm. 

A gust of wind ushers the smell of seaweed and salt through the hall, heralding Aeron’s arrival.

“Greetings, brother,” Euron calls. “How good of you to join us. Lord Volmark has kept you comfortable, I hope? I’m told the cells in his castle are spacious and warm. Certainly better than the cave you were hiding in by the mouth of the Mander.” 

Aeron pushes back a matted lock of hair to glower at him. “I was not hiding, brother. I took a pilgrimage to spread the Drowned God’s wisdom. I have been preaching all along the shores of the Sunset Sea, and have opened many eyes and ears.”

“The wrong ones, it would seem,” Euron informs him dryly. “The people of Old Oak betrayed you to their Lords, who in turn unwittingly revealed it to me. It was an easy task to track you to the river. You are fortunate it was Maron’s men who found you. The Tyrells would have had your head.” 

“If such was the will of my God,” Aeron says gravely, “I would have accepted it. I will accept it even now. I only ask you throw my body into the sea, so I may dine with the great Lord forevermore.” 

“You misjudge me Aeron,” Euron admonishes. “I do not wish to take your life. I would ask you to take your place at my side as the high priest of the realm.”

Aeron scoffs. “What’s this, Crow’s Eye? You mean to tell me you have repented?”

“Why brother, have you forgotten? You heard me speak at the Kingsmoot. I promised to take Westeros for the Drowned God. Did you think me insincere?” 

Aeron doesn’t respond other than to move his lips in prayer. Euron waits. The silence extends into minutes, and Euron becomes restless. His brother’s meditation is tedious and offensive. He allows his mind to wander to the details of the moot. Manderly’s raven informed him that the suspicious northerners will not journey to Pyke. The slaughter at the Twins has destroyed their faith in guest rights. As fate would have it, however, there is a secret ironborn stronghold on the Stony Shore. It will be an adequate substitute.

He asks for parchment and a quill. He may as well conduct other business while Aeron delays. Theon dutifully presents the materials, and the sight of him jars Aeron out of his reverie.

“Is that – ” he tries, stunned. “It cannot be.”

“It is,” Euron tells him. “And it can. It is a gift from the Drowned God. _What is dead may never die_ , brother. Balon’s son has returned, and it is a sign we are on the right path.”

“But he’s so...Theon? Can it be you? Your arms, lad. Your _hands._ ” Theon only ducks his head and hides his hands behind him. 

“Aye, brother. The Boltons have done him unforgivable damage. The Dreadfort bastard played the finger dance with him. You remember how that goes, do you not? He lost, as Urri did.”

The sour twist in Aeron’s mouth highlights how changed he is from the fair child he was. He’s aged into a gangly man, thinness highlighting his misshapen nose. He blamed himself for Urri’s death and sunk into perpetual state of insobriety until he joined the priesthood. His drunkenness made him reckless on his raids. Thrice, his nose had been broken by a villager’s spade. 

“I have repaid that debt many times over,” Aeron responds firmly. “I minister to our people. I hold vigils for those who shun my blessings. I even pray for you.”

“And your prayers have been answered,” Euron assures him. “All I do, I do for Him.” The lie slips easily from his tongue.

“And yet you still take slaves,” Aeron counters, pointing to Jon. “That is not the Old Way. Thralls you may take. Slavery is forbidden.” 

“This man is no slave, brother. I paid the iron price for him, and he is my captive. I have no intention of selling him.” That part is quite genuine. The mere thought of another man having Jon fills Euron’s heart with jealous rage.

“Captive? Why? He’s young and strong. He should be labouring with the other thralls.” 

“Because he is Eddard Stark’s bastard son. Having him gives me leverage in the north.”

“Ah yes, I remember. I heard that Ned Stark took a whore for a salt wife.”

“I remain unconvinced on that point, brother. This one is noble, and something lies in him that is more than merely the sum of his wolf blood.”

“High birth doesn’t make someone noble," Jon interjects. "I’ve met wildlings, farmers, bastards and whores, and most of them had far more courage and honour than any king. Including you.” 

The mark of last night’s blow still blooms vividly upon Jon’s jaw, and Euron slaps him sharply on the same side. The punishment is only for show, for his men and his brother. Privately, Euron is pleased Jon still has the energy to challenge him.

“Aye, he speaks like a Stark,” Aeron snorts derisively. “And he has their colouring. Did you know that our mother and father took me to Riverrun as a child, brother? I was only five summers old and still attached to mother’s skirts. Lord Tully held a moot, and father went to bury old resentments with the mainland. I met Rickard Stark’s two youngest children while the adults sat in the council. The girl was older than me, comely like this one, and as black-haired and wild as her younger brother.” He shakes his head in disapproval. “I saw Benjen years later as a man grown. He came to the Iron Islands, asking for men for the Night’s Watch. Balon turned him away.”

“You disagreed with his decision?” 

“I did. I have no love for the Starks, but like us, they were of the First Men. We shared blood long ago. The Wall has existed since the Age of Heroes, when the Grey King slew Nagga and saved our people from her scourge. The tales of the creatures in the Land of Always Winter are true, brother, and the Wall is the only thing that protects us should they awaken from their slumber.”

“Good. Then you will appreciate the urgency of my mission, and mayhap you will forgive me for the unkind way I had you brought to me. The White Walkers have indeed awoken. The Iron Islands must rise to fight them.”

“What? How came you by these terrible tidings?”

“This one, Jon Snow. He followed Benjen Stark into the Night’s Watch. He’s seen the Others. They are marching on the Wall.”

“Is it true, boy? Do they walk again?” Aeron asks, alarmed.

“Speak, bastard,” Euron prompts. “It’s all you’ve talked about for weeks.”

“The White Walkers have raised an army of dead men,” Jon intones wearily. “It’ll only be a matter of time before they get past the Wall and head south.”

“Are you sure of this?” Aeron demands.

“I swear it on the old gods and the new. It’s not a trick. I killed one of them. I counted six more, and that was only at Hardhome. They added thousands of dead wildlings to their army that day.”

“You killed one? How?" This is the first Euron’s heard of the detail.

“With Longclaw, my sword.” 

Euron thinks upon this. “A Valyrian blade. So dragonfire welded in steel will do for the White Walkers. Better yet are the flames fresh from their bellies.  You heard the horn at the Kingsmoot, Aeron. Daenerys Targaryen has three living dragons. They will soon be mine.”

“Dragons are an enemy of our people, Crow’s Eye,” Aeron protests. “The Grey King made his hall from Nagga’s bones.”

“He also brought us fire,” Euron reminds him. “He taught our forebears how to use it to our advantage. And what happens if ice should meet fire on a mountaintop? Water runs to the rivers and out to the sea to fill the Drowned God’s halls. I will turn these beasts into our Lord’s devices, brother, and He will bless us in His glory.”

“And what would you have me do.”

“What you have always done brother: spread the word of God and bring men to our cause. You raided with the Ironborn for years; now you shall sail the coast and preach rather than pillage. You have already begun, and henceforth you will have my men to protect you.”

“I know you,” Aeron says suspiciously. “You do naught unless it is for your own gain. Why do you ask this of me?”

“Because you have the respect of our people and through your words you will convert a hundred thousand more. The Sparrows have taken over the Crownlands. I would have our Drowned Men out there in equal numbers. Together we can conquer the seven kingdoms in His name.”

Aeron squeezes some water out of a swathe of his hair. “I will pray upon it,” he agrees reluctantly. “I will give you my answer on the morrow.”

He will accept. If Euron knows his brother, no matter what he recalls of Euron and his childhood, his love for his God is his weakness.

Convincing Aeron to join him is not his last task. The rest of the day Euron lends to strategizing with the new lords of the Shield Islands. Falia has been busy visiting lovesick nobles in the Reach, their thirst for her loosening their tongues, and thus Euron knows the Tyrells are gathering their banners to launch an attack. Highgarden’s progress is slow thanks to the imprisonment of Loras and Margaery in King’s Landing, so there will be time to bring more ships from the Iron Islands. If all goes well at the moot, the north may even be persuaded to aid the counterattack by ambushing the Tyrells on land.

It’s long past midnight by the time he returns to his chamber. He is alone. Euron slipped Falia a large dose of valerian and kept her wine goblet full during supper. She fell drunk upon the table during the serving of the sweets.

Theon is leaving the room with Petyr and another guard as Euron arrives.

“Nephew,” Euron says jovially as he pulls him back inside, “You’ve done well over the last few days. Is there somewhat you’d like to do in the Shield Islands? We shall be here for one more night.” 

Jon is fresh from the bath Theon must have drawn him, towel draped at his waist and chain reattached to the bed. Water trickles down the planes of his belly and hips invitingly. He adjusts the towel upwards to block Euron’s appreciative interest and goes back to studying the plate on his lap. Theon’s hair smells faintly of lemon. Briefly, Euron wonders if they bathed together. 

Theon seems to have been distracted by Jon as well, and hasn’t yet answered Euron’s question. He catches himself and stammers. “Sorry, Unc – your, Your Grace. Maybe it would be nice to walk outside a little. I wouldn’t go far,” he hastens to add. “Just enough to feel the sun for a bit.”

“Aye. That can be done,” Euron nods, scratching his chin. “I may send Jon out with you. Young men like you and he are used to battle. You fade and weaken if left idle, as you have learned from your past confinement. And how would you repay me for such a gift?”

Theon hesitates. “I thought you were saying I’d already – I don’t…” He trails off, uncertain.

“You’re having trouble with your words tonight, nephew. Something has you unsettled.” A thought comes to Euron, and it sparks his temper. “Did you read Ramsay’s message?” 

Theon blanches and his legs buckle beneath him. It’s enough proof that he did not. 

“He wrote to you?” he asks weakly. “What does he want?”

“Come now, surely you can guess.” Euron raises his eyebrow to Theon with a sly smile.

“He wants you, Theon. He wants his _Reek.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this feels a bit abrupt, there's a good reason: this sprawled into an >8000 word chapter and I've had trouble sticking the landing. It's super weird, because the first two entries weren't like this, and I need to learn to control myself. Anyway, from now on I'm going to take a cue from other, better writers around here, and post shorter chapters a bit more frequently. Unless anyone actually prefers the wait!


	7. Chapter 7

Euron sends Theon to the servants’ tower to dwell upon the news that night.

His response had been disappointingly dull. There was no weeping, no rending of clothes. Theon just stood there, wordless and vacant. Jon, on the other hand, reacted with unexpected vigour. For all that the name Reek may not have meant anything to him, he can’t have misunderstood the implication of Ramsay’s demand. His growl was feral, and the air around him seemed to glow red. When Euron pushed Jon onto all fours to take him Jon fought harder than he had in weeks.

The morning brings a vague sense of disquiet. Euron had slept poorly. The room was too still, his dreams abstract and unhelpful. He finds his concentration wavering during his councils with the lords. Going over each detail of the plans for a battle set to play out on multiple fronts makes his lids droop and his head pound.

 _If I had some Shade of the Evening, it might set me on the right path._  As it was, he’d drunk the last vials of it in Mereen trying to scry out Daenerys Targaryen. It had been a waste. All he saw was a hazy, white-clad figure standing on grasslands next to a pile of charred bones, and it was her, he was sure of it, but he could discern no clue as to her whereabouts. Euron has sailed every ocean countless times. Were she on a ship he could have guessed her location purely by the specific hue of the sea or the pattern of starlight reflecting on the water. On land he is lost. He left Mereen with only his brother’s bones.

By early evening his head is aching to the point of sickness, so he truncates his war meetings to decamp to the  _Silence._  His malaise lifts as soon as he sets foot upon the deck. The knowledge that they will be raising the anchor on the morrow sets his heart soaring. With good winds, the journey to the Iron Islands will take six days, and it will be another seven or so to the Stony Shore. Euron informed his men yesterday the fleet would stay just two nights in Pyke. They must get to the moot well ahead of the northerners.

Reenergised, he summons Nute and the other lords to reconvene on the ship. Aeron comes too, as Euron knew he would. In years past Euron regretted letting his youngest brother survive to adulthood. Leaving him alive had been risky. If Aeron had ever disclosed the truth of what Euron did to him to Quellon or Balon, he would have been dealt a harsher penalty than banishment. Now Euron can see why the Gods told him to leave Aeron be, for he has taken up Euron’s new cause with the kind of enthusiasm only a religious fanatic can muster.

“Theon and I raided the Stony Shore four years past,” Aeron tells the lords gathered on the deck. “We deliberately left some homes unburnt. It was Balon’s plan that ironborn should remain there in the guise of fishermen to create a safe landing place for our ships during our invasion. The men are there still, right under the noses of the northern lords. Several hundred people have settled there now, mostly from the Reach and the Crownlands. They are men and women fled from the scourge of Sparrows, and they have opened their hearts to the Drowned Lord. They have built a great meeting hall that any passing man would think was a sept of the Seven. The rear of the hall is lined with their false idols, but the front doors open to the sea so our people can turn their backs on the pointed star to pray.” He nods at Euron with approval. “It will be an auspicious place for a moot.”

“Aye, it will be quite a shock to the northerners,” Euron chuckles. “Their attention has been fixed upon Stannis. Our little village has been growing there unnoticed.”

“I still say we shouldn’t take so many ships,” Nute argues. “The Shield Islands will be vulnerable. What happens if the Tyrells attack while we’re up there toying with the northerners?”

“Ah, thank you for reminding me, Nute,” Euron says. “Falia received a raven from one of her lord-thralls in Highgarden this morning. The High Sparrow has deferred the Tyrells’ trial for another three months. We will have no trouble from them in the meantime. It will take less than one moon’s turn to tidy up matters in the north, and then I will turn my eye to the Reach.”

The men cheer and drink late into the night. Euron retires to his quarters at the hour of ghosts, mood light. He’d instructed Theon be confined to Euron’s chamber with Jon, lest he try to escape the prospect of being returned to Ramsay Bolton. He had, after all, fled Bolton once already. The Dreadfort bastard obviously hadn’t imagined he’d need to lock Theon in, and to be fair, it might have been a reasonable assumption. Most times a prisoner kept for more than a few months forgets their old life and develops a fawning desire to please. Ramsay’s mistake, Euron had concluded upon reflection, was involving Theon in Sansa’s defilement. If Bolton had been more experienced, he would have known even the most indoctrinated of men would break out of their conditioning to rescue an innocent girl. Especially one who was like a sister.

If that error spoke volumes about Ramsay’s greenness, Theon’s current state tells of the man’s other talents. Stepping into his chamber, Euron can sense instantly that Theon has woken up to his fate. The room crackles with anxiety. Theon is pacing, clutching at his hair, his lips chapped from worrying them with his teeth. Two flaccid wineskins lie discarded on the table, and parchments litter the floor beneath the desk. Messages for help, Euron supposes. Unfortunately for Theon, he will not be permitted to access the ravens henceforth.

Jon is sitting stiff-backed on the bed, tracking Theon’s movements. He springs up as Euron enters, livid. That, Euron can understand. Jon’s probably been witness to Theon’s distress for hours. Watching a man work a groove into the floor would put anyone’s nerves on edge.

“How does Ramsay know Theon’s with you?” Jon snaps, without preamble.

“Why, I told him, of course,” Euron answers, sauntering to his desk. He inspects a vase sitting beside the inkpot, and hefts a candlestick in his hand. Both are made of gold, as are the goblets on his bedside table. He had his men strip his castle chamber of its treasures and transport them to the ship. They will be fine additions to the coffers he will present the Dragon Queen.

“The Boltons declined my invitation to the moot,” he continues, “so I sweetened the proposal. Ramsay was so quick to answer, nephew. He must miss you sorely.”

“Please, please no. I’ll do anything.” Theon has stopped pacing. His knuckles are clenched white. “Jon, don’t let him do it, please.”

It’s a pathetic appeal, delivered in a whimper. However, the very idea that Theon would think Jon could or would aid him troubles Euron greatly.  _I have neglected them_. It has been days since he last ordered Theon to help him subdue Jon, and the speed with which they’ve rekindled their mutual compassion is disturbing indeed.

“You would actually fight me on this Snow, in defence of this man? You are a tiresome creature. Ramsay has agreed to attend the moot in exchange for his pet. The northern lords will turn on him, and Bolton will die at their hands eventually. My pathetic nephew will have his freedom in time.”

“I’ll be dead before then,” Theon says dully. “I’ll do it myself.”

“No, I think not. You do not have the courage, or you would have done so long ago.”

“He’s paid enough,” Jon flashes. “It’d be kinder to give him a swift death than the one he’ll get from Bolton.”

 _That cursed Stark honour._ “You speak of kindness, bastard, and yet your brothers were hung and burned,” Euron shoots back. “Or perhaps it was the other way around? I forget the detail of it. You’ve never heard a child scream, have you Jon? Not like that. Not like they do when they are ripped from their parents and feel the touch of a blade, or a noose, or a torch. I’ve set many alight myself. Their screams are so pure, so cleansing. It’s the best remedy for a black mood.”

“For a monster,” Jon spits.

“Yes lad,” Euron grins, “You’ve called me such several times. You are unoriginal with your insults, Jon Snow, a result of your insipid Stark upbringing, I fear. Men with more inventive minds have named me far worse.  _Riñar Ossȳngnon_  is a favourite of mine. I’m told it means ‘The Terror of Children.’ It sounds plain in the common tongue, but in Valyrian it truly sings. Perhaps my nephew would like to take the name for his own.”

"No!" Theon lifts his head, eyes urgent. "Jon, I didn't kill your brothers!”

"I know," Jon replies quietly.

"What's this?" It takes discipline to keep his voice controlled.  _Jon Snow must be the sole living Stark son._  The northern lords have to believe it, else Euron’s plans will collapse into ruin.

"I pretended I killed the little ones, Bran and Rickon. I didn't." Theon swallows guiltily. "I had two other children killed instead."

"Well, where are they? The Stark children?" Euron presses.

“They got away. Ramsay thought they might have run north to find Jon, so Roose Bolton sent a man to the Wall to find them. He was supposed to kill them."

Theon looks to Jon. "Did he come there? The man Locke?"

Jon's lips part in astonishment. "Locke? He was searching for Bran and Rickon? My friend Sam saw Bran, at –" He stops. "Locke was a good fighter,” he says in a clumsy attempt at diversion. “He died at Craster's, and not from a mutineer’s blade. It wasn’t one of Craster’s wives either. Something else killed him, something big."

None of it makes sense to Euron. The lad may as well be talking to himself. He grabs Jon by the arms and shakes him to get his attention.

"Well? What of your brothers?"

Jon’s shoulders sag. "I never found them. Maybe Locke did in the end." His eyes brim with new grief. He's telling the truth, as he knows it.

Euron rounds on his nephew. “Who else have you told, Theon?”

“No one!” Theon cringes. “They wanted to keep it a secret, so they could hold Winterfell without anyone challenging them.”

“Well, you’d best hope they are dead, nephew, or you will feel the full measure of my wrath,” Euron grinds out. He stalks to him, looming. “Is there anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?”

"No! No, your Grace. Please don’t send me back to Ramsay,” Theon begs. “I won’t tell.”

“You think I would send you to him for your punishment? Ramsay Bolton’s tortures will be a sweet memory compared to what I can do to you.” He snatches up Theon’s left hand, lifting it in demonstration. “He cut you smoothly, with a good knife. He wanted to keep you alive. I will show no such mercy. You exist only at my whim, boy.”

Euron sneers. “ _Boy_.” He pours all of his scorn into the word. “No, you are not even that, are you? You are neither boy nor man. Not anymore.”

Euron has delayed this long enough. He’d curbed his curiosity for the sake of allowing Theon to build up his fear, and it was a successful tactic. The unspoken threat hung about Theon like a shroud, growing heavier day by day. It helped to keep him compliant and uncomplaining. Tonight, though, the time is right.

“Show me,” Euron commands flatly.

Theon understands his meaning immediately. “No. Please.”

Euron slaps him. Theon stumbles, but his hands stay stubbornly at his sides.

“Show me Theon. I would see the man’s handiwork."

“I can’t!”

Euron slaps him a second time and drags him by the elbow toward the bed.

“Show me,” Euron repeats. “Or you will learn what true pain is.”

Tears gather in Theon’s eyes. He hugs his arms around his chest and moans despairingly, and then, with trembling fingers, he drops his breeches and lifts his tunic.

 _Fascinating_.

Euron has seen nothing like it. He’s injured men there in the past, usually during a melee. He had never deliberately inflicted such a wound. He’d always despised eunuchs and wanted no part in creating another. They were uniformly craven, possessing the weak spines of women and none of their feminine charm.

It was one of his own worst fears too, losing his manhood. At the age of seven, he’d walked in on his great-uncle in the bathhouse. The old man’s groin was a mess of ulcers, prick eroded to a nub, legs fat and leaking with fluid. He needed two servants to help him undress. His older brother Balon told Euron that Uncle Aellon was cursed for giving up raiding and raping in his youth. “If you don’t use your cock, the Drowned God sends his crabs to eat it away,” Balon had warned him. Aellon died a few days later, wasted and miserable. The stench of him - the type that burnt the nostrils and clung to the roof of the mouth - lingered around the castle for weeks after the man died. Thinking of it brings bile to Euron’s throat.

Theon’s disfigurement is different. It is grisly, but elegant: the stump is a dusky pink, the skin surrounding it unmarked and healthy. Whatever else Ramsay did, he must have ensured this wound was kept scrupulously clean.

Jon utters an oath and turns his head aside. Euron grabs his chin to force it back.

“No, bastard. You will not be blind to this. See here what lies in the hearts of men. What we can do if we listen to the true song of our souls. It is wondrous.”

“Gods, Theon,” Jon says faintly.

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that,” Theon whispers. “It’s too late.”

“What, Snow, can you not appreciate the artistry of it?” Euron asks. “This Ramsay has a way with a blade. He sliced through the root expertly and the hole has not closed over. Which is well, for otherwise death inevitably follows. Men who can’t piss drown in their own urine.”

Euron crouches down to examine closer. “Ah, and what’s this?”

There’s a lump between Theon’s legs, below the remnant of his severed member. Euron reaches out to explore it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, intrigued.

“Well, this I did not expect. You’re only half-gelded. Your bastard took great care with this, nephew. It would have taken a precise hand to dissect the left without destroying the right, and all without accidentally killing you. One wrong move, and he could have sliced through the vessel here.” Euron traces the tidy scar extending up Theon’s groin. “Do you know why he did such a thing?”

Theon says nothing. His eyes are squeezed shut.

“Mayhap he did it to keep you from growing weak,” Euron proposes. “Have you heard of the Unsullied? They are warriors who were cut at birth. Any other child so maimed would become a stunted and sickly man, but the Unsullied thrive. It is a mystery I have not been able to unravel. The infirmity is not so severe if the gelding happens after the boy has become a man. Nevertheless, they grow feeble with time. The Bolton bastard has spared you that fate.”

Euron lightens his touch to a caress.

“No,” Euron decides, “That was not his intent. I think he took one for the joy of the cutting, and left you the other to remind you of what you have lost.” He presses his thumb gently to Theon’s stump. “You must still have needs. Desires. And no cock to help you sate them. Unless he taught you to take comfort in other things.”

Theon flinches and chokes on a sob.

_And now I have hit upon his darkest secret._

“Is that it Theon? Did the bastard twist you so that you spent at his will? Did he teach you to find pleasure in your pain? Or that of others?” He crushes Theon’s stone in his palm. Theon lets out a pained yelp, but still, he swells perceptibly in Euron’s hand. “Both, I would wager. Though I cannot say so conclusively without putting it to the test. Here, we shall start tonight.”

Euron unlocks Jon’s leash from the bedpost. “Jon, get on your knees.”

“What?” Jon asks hoarsely.

“You heard me, lad. Your pretty lips will tease it out of him better than my hands.”

“No.” Jon’s eyes widen with disbelief. “ _No._ ”

“Do you defy me, bastard?” Euron asks mildly.

Jon shakes his head. His skin, always pale, has turned translucent. “I – you can’t ask me –”

“Nonsense. You have a gift for it. Pretend it’s Falia’s cunt.”

“No don’t,” Theon pleads, “don’t touch me. Please, it hurts.”

Theon’s wants are irrelevant, of course. Jon’s are as well, although he seems to have forgotten.

“Well, Jon Snow. Your pride has just cost the slave girl two fingers. I will take them from her on the morrow.” He means to. He will make the bastard watch. “Delay further and I will cut off her whole hand.”

Jon’s face hollows. “Don’t. I’ll –”

“Then kneel, bastard.”

Jon drops to his knees and holds there, eyes closed. He murmurs something too low for Euron to hear. A plea for forgiveness from his dead wildling lover, Euron guesses. Or a prayer.

“The Old Gods cannot help you here Snow,” Euron tells him.

Jon lifts his head up to stare at him, gaze unreadable. “Perhaps not.”

“Jon, stop. You don’t have to do this,” Theon implores.

“I have to. I won’t hurt you, Theon,” Jon says solemnly. “Just try to hold still.”

Theon nods shakily, and Jon exhales in reply. He shifts slightly on his knees, swaying. Euron is about to cuff him for his slowness but a strange sight stays his fist: in the steady lamplight, Jon’s pupils begin to dilate queerly. The change is gradual and hypnotic, and Euron finds himself holding his breath, watching the inkiness creep wide. It’s as if Jon’s walking into darkness. Finally, they’re so fixed and corpse-like, it’s a shock when at last he moves. Eyes black and distant, Jon dips his head.

Theon's whole body jolts into a rigid line. Euron comes around Theon’s back, and from his position at Theon’s shoulder he can see the shadowy spill of Jon’s hair and the curve of his lashes, and then – there – the flash of pink tongue. Jon’s bearing is too calm and disconnected for Euron’s liking, but soon Theon’s giving into it, his stiff muscles melting with each press of Jon’s lips. Jon's careful, lapping and sucking delicately, and despite the bindings at his wrists he’s able to ghost his fingers over Theon’s skin, across all the parts that must be aching with need. When Jon licks around his hole and the scars at his root, Theon arches and moans.

Euron chooses that moment to fold Theon over Jon, and just as Euron suspected, Theon bends like a reed and willingly presses his arse back. Jon hums, dropping lower on his knees to fit under Theon’s angled belly. Theon shuffles so Jon’s right up against the bed, and there he splays his hands on the mattress either side of Jon's head for balance.

“You are a well-trained whore,” Euron purrs, and pushes in. Theon breathes an assent, and Euron doesn't waste time picking up the pace, ruthless and rapid. A rough stab designed to hurt only makes Theon cant his hips back gorgeously, wantonness and self-loathing radiating from every pore. It’s a new and glorious thrill, having someone so aroused and falling apart under Euron’s touch, responding to pain with mournful groans of pleasure. Euron meets Theon’s hunger, biting down hard on the bony wing of his shoulder and Theon jerks with it, into Jon’s mouth, burying a hand in his hair.

Euron plunges deeper, knowing Jon is trapped there, knowing Theon is pulling him closer with every vicious thrust. He can feel the vibration of Jon’s muffled cry through Theon’s skin. He’s being smothered, bucking and grunting frantically. Theon knows it too; he's dropped his head to watch Jon writhe, huffing with lust.

Euron tries to prolong it as long as he can, but Jon's struggles are faltering, and Theon is near his peak.

“Come for me, Theon,” Euron urges. “Come for me, _Reek_.”

Theon emits a noise of acute, deep agony, and pulses forward. Euron smiles into Theon’s back. He allows his own pleasure to spike up and over, blood rushing in his ears.

As soon as Euron lifts away, Theon sobs and unwinds his fingers from Jon’s hair. Jon falls back on his heels, heaving and coughing, and Theon casts himself down to utter a steady stream of contrition.

“Gods, Jon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Theon is flushed all over and his hands quiver on Jon’s shoulders.

“Hush, nephew,” Euron soothes him. “Look at him.  _Look_. He was made for this.”

Jon’s wracking coughs have subsided into deep gasps. Damp curls tumble across his brow; his cheeks are stained red. Theon’s seed shines obscenely on his swollen lips. Jon’s so beautiful in his debasement, it nearly obscures the seething fury beneath. 

It’s a grievous error, allowing that thought to take hold, because Euron well nigh misses the fiery gleam returning to Jon’s aura. The way he bares his teeth is distinctly lupine, his eyes bright red.

Too late Euron understands: _the direwolf is in him_.

There's no chance to back away. Jon attacks with such urgency and ferocity that Euron’s lifted off his feet, Jon’s teeth tearing at his throat. Euron bellows and pulls the leash to wrench Jon off, but Jon rolls easily and scrambles up on his haunches, undaunted. He spits out a thick wad of skin and launches once more. Euron catches the flying body and twists over to pin Jon underneath, where Jon snarls and squirms and somehow latches hold of Euron’s ear. Euron hears rather than feels the ripping of flesh as Jon pulls it away.

 _I could die here tonight_. His stomach roils. The beast inside Jon has marked Euron as prey to be destroyed, and has a bloodlust that cannot be controlled with reason or threats. His one piece of luck is that Jon’s hands are tied, and Euron hooks his fingers around the rope to drag Jon’s wrists up above his head. Jon strains up, growling and savage, the direwolf lending his limbs unnatural strength. Euron drives his knee up hard between Jon’s legs, and when he yelps and curls over, takes the chance to lunge to the desk. He gropes for the candlestick and spins, swinging it in a blind arc, and _thank the Gods_ , the timing is perfect. Jon must have been almost upon him again, for it strikes him heavily on the forehead mid-leap and knocks him to the floor.

The room falls quiet. For what feels like an age, Euron’s rooted in place, staring down at Jon incredulously. The lad looks so human and vulnerable. _If I had missed, he would have killed me._ It’s surreal, unfathomable. Jon’s mouth is smeared scarlet, the ragged mess of Euron’s ear lying on the floor beside him. Euron touches his head absently. The pain there is oddly mild, no worse than a graze. At least, he thinks, he still has his right eye.

Jon’s chest rises and falls evenly. He’s alive but unconscious, blood flowing prettily from the split in his brow. It trickles down his temple, dividing into smaller threads and seeping into his hair. It’s all Euron can do to watch it, mesmerised, until Theon scuttles over to press the edge of his own shirt to the wound.

“Don’t worry nephew,” Euron tells him half-heartedly, “It looks worse than it is.” He’s not convinced of it, not at all. The direwolf is lethal. Euron hadn’t recognised what had happened to Jon the first time for the simple reason that a man with the ability to enter the mind of a beast was rare; an animal warging into a man was unheard of. It could be R’hllor’s magic making the warg bond so unstable, or that of the old gods, clashing in a war foretold thousands of years ago, releasing great quakes of strange power. If Euron cannot harness it, Jon will have to be sacrificed. He’d considered himself dispassionate on this point once. No longer. He feels ill at the notion, helpless and enraged _._

 _No._ Jon Snow must live. Their fates are entwined, like the blood of the wolves and krakens of old, in the days of the First Men.

_Jon’s blood._

It’s so simple, Euron berates himself for not thinking of it earlier. The Starks were Kings in the North. The red priest said royal blood burned brightest, bringing the blessing and counsel of R’hllor. Euron stumbles in his rush to push Theon aside, seizing a goblet to scrape up the blood from Jon’s temple. There’s not much, thanks to Theon’s fussing. He hopes it will serve.

He sets about finding the priest right away. The entrance to the cells below deck is at the stern, and Euron’s crew politely ignore his dishevelled as he traverses aft, bowing their heads for him at the top of the stairs.

The priest is awake, crouched on the floor of his cell.

“I was expecting you, Your Grace.”

He listens intently to Euron’s explanation of the origin of the blood. The man asks insightful questions, and Euron finds himself revealing all he knows of Jon’s history and their shared memories. At the finish, the priest nods gravely.

“My King, I will need my brazier.”

Euron fetches it and tips in the contents of the cup. It blazes without the strike of a flint, flames flicking blue and red.

The priest frowns. “The colour of these flames is most unusual, Your Grace. Perhaps the brazier has been tainted. I cannot - ”

He breaks off, awed. “It is she, my King, the Dragon Queen. Oh, how I’ve longed for this day, to behold her beauty. She truly is a gift from R’hllor. You are Azor Ahai reborn, Your Grace, but she will fight by your side ere night gives way to dawn. I have never seen a vision so vivid. Come and see!”

Euron looks. The vision envelops him, pricking all his senses, and he sees her clearly for the first time, Daenerys Targaryen. She alights from a magnificent black dragon amid the smell of smoke and salt onto the bloody deck of the _Silence_. She has an incomparable beauty, her features silvery and regal. Euron had expected her eyes to be violet. Instead they’re a luminous blue-green.

“It is you,” she says wonderingly, drawing close. “They did not lie.” She extends her hand. “Come.” Sunlight glimmers upon her flaxen hair like a crown.

She evaporates into the fire, and Euron cries out in frustration. “No! Is there nothing else? What of Jon Snow? His direwolf?”

“I know not, Your Grace. I admit I am confounded. I was inducted into the priesthood at twelve, and in all my years I have never have I heard a voice through the flames. You gave me precious little of the bastard’s blood. There are a few drops left in the cup. Mayhap you could burn some of Theon’s with it? He is a prince of the Iron Islands. Or your own,” he adds, gesturing toward Euron’s bloody neck. “You are a King. R’hllor will answer.”

Euron does not hesitate. He peels off his soaked tunic and tosses it whole into the brazier with the rest of Jon’s blood. The fire flares anew, revealing an open field of snow. The bitter cold penetrates Euron’s boots and bites his toes, and above the howl of an incoming blizzard, he can hear the shrieks of men living and dead. 

The wrongness of it all sets his pulse racing. _Jon Snow._  He can feel him nearby. Euron turns and quickly spies him some sixty paces away, on the top of a hill. He is astride a horse, clothed in the black armour and red sigil of Euron’s house. Euron starts toward him instinctively, his feet sinking in the snow.

Someone catches his arm and pulls him up short. It’s Theon. “Don’t. Look at him,” he says grimly. “ _Look_.”

Euron follows Theon’s gaze back to the hill, and then he sees: Jon is changed. He stares straight ahead, unblinking, and his gloveless hands lie blood-slicked and limp in his lap. The beast under him is little more than a rotting carcass. It whinnies and stamps, seemingly impatient. Dead flesh dangles tenuously from its grey bones.

The cacophony of wailing ceases, and in its wake is a sinister silence that leaves Euron’s mouth dry. A glacial blast buffets him, and amid a flurry of white, the Night’s King emerges. The creature mounts the horse and settles at Jon’s back, arms snaking tight around his waist. It focuses its icy glare upon Euron and nuzzles Jon’s neck. Jon bares his throat in spiritless submission, letting his head fall back on the Other's shoulder. The King's blue lips tilt up in the barest smirk of triumph. 

“ _The Night’s King_ ,” the priest breathes. A gust of wind whips through the cell and snuffs the fire out.

“Imbecile!” Euron barks. “I know who he is! The vision is false. Where was that? Beyond the Wall? I have no intention of going there until I have the dragons.”

“You know it is not false. You fear for the bastard,” the priest replies calmly. “The one true god does not deal in lies. The vision is a true representation of what may come to pass. You should be reassured about one thing, Your Grace: the future is not set in stone. You can change it. It is your destiny to assemble the pieces of this larger puzzle, and fashion it to an end of your choosing. R’hllor will guide you.”

He looks into the smouldering embers, and speaks in a sonorous voice. “No one man can win this war alone. The dragon has three heads: you, the Dragon Queen and another. You will need your nephew, your brother, and your niece. Others will play their parts as well; R’hllor has chosen them. They are the North’s Daughter and the Hidden Wolf; the Watchman and the Queensguard. The Trident. The Faceless man. The Greenseer.“

“By every god,” Euron mutters irritably. “This, you call guidance?”

“The Second Son. The Red Bear and the Black. The Crow’s Maester –”

“Enough! Why do none of you priests speak plainly? I do not have time to chase your riddles.”

The priest harrumphs. “His message is self-evident, Your Grace. Your preoccupation with the bastard is distracting you from your work. He is merely one of many who will figure in the final war. The blend of magic in him is unique, that is true, but from what you’ve described, each element is weak. True wargs can send their minds to a creature at will; Jon Snow cannot control his connection with his direwolf. The power of winter is strong within him, and yet without you, he cannot hear the call of the Night’s King, nor fight the creature’s embrace. And the fire that you sense in him is not his - it is R’hllor’s. If He chooses, it can be taken away as easily as it was granted.”

Euron snorts with disgust and leaves the cell, lest he succumb to the itch to strike the smug look from the man’s face. Euron had always considered it a wise policy not to offend a God openly, no matter how unhelpful.

Topside, the salt air stings his throat and ear. Euron crosses the deck briskly and makes his way to his quarters, stopping in front of a mirror in the great chamber to assess his injuries. The wound in his neck is worse than he imagined. Jon’s teeth had sunk deep in Euron’s throat, entirely too close to the vessels. The defect will need to be stitched. Thankfully, the injury to what used to be his right ear is relatively superficial, albeit unsightly. It will only require searing and dressing.

The raw skin chafes under the patch, and it occurs to Euron then that had he uncovered his mind’s eye to look into the fire, he might have seen more than the glimpses he was afforded. He throws his patch down angrily and unlocks his bedchamber, fatigue blurring his vision. The priest was right: his obsession with Jon has dulled his wits. He needs wine and a good night's sleep.

He won’t get it. Euron senses that much as soon as he steps over the threshold. His skin tingles unpleasantly, and he’s accosted by the dank smell of disturbed soil. He tries to refocus his eye, knowing already what he will see. The presence surrounding him is ancient, powerful and familiar.

Bloodraven has come.

He hasn’t changed since Euron last saw him, fluttering at the edge of his childhood dreams. His albino skin is parched, pulled thin across old bones. His right eye burns red, and wizened tree roots spiral up his limbs and pierce the empty socket of his left eye. Bloodraven’s half-brother had put it out in a battle, and Euron’s own mutilation had been wrought in deliberate imitation. Bloodraven had been the first to open Euron’s mind to the sight, visiting countless times, trying to call him north. Euron spurned him. He knew even as a boy that he would cut his own path, and he had done just so, across the sea and through the flesh of the fallen.

Still, the gods have chosen to bring them together again, here and now, in this room. It is blanketed in snow. Little drifts have formed by the walls, and the bed is covered with ice. Theon is lying next to Jon on the floor, cleaved so close that Jon’s blood anoints his brow. Snowflakes glitter in Jon’s hair, and he shivers, breath misting. Neither man wakes.

Bloodraven is not alone. A young man sits next to him, legs awkward and wasted, and he has the gift too, that much is clear. The magic is visible and extraordinary, whirling around them and sweeping out over the room in a great wave. In the circle of their energy, a round ball of a man crouches beside the boy, holding a candle, and two brown-haired youths stand behind, faces shadowed. A hooded woman kneels next to Jon, clasping the hand of a boy of perhaps ten. Three helmed knights gather close around her, their armour clinking ominously. Euron can smell Valyrian steel.

Suddenly, the crippled boy gasps.  _He sees me,_  Euron thinks.  _And he knows I see him._ The rest all turn to stare, and for a few moments all is frozen. Euron’s heart pounds painfully in his chest.

The hooded woman is the first to move, raising a slender finger to point accusingly at Euron. One of the young men drops into a fighting stance, unsheathing a slim blade. He bays and breaks into a run.

 _He can’t touch me,_  Euron reminds himself.  _He’s a shadow._ He backs away nonetheless and closes the chamber door. The boy’s sword slides through the wood like a fish through water.

Euron grapples for his patch and covers his eye. He lurches to the stairs, cursing, taking them two at a time to reach the deck.

“You fucking  _cunt._ I'll make you suffer for this,” a voice drifts up. The certainty in the tone makes something crawl down Euron’s spine. He staggers onto the deck and slams the door behind him. Still, the young voice is audible, scouring the channel of his torn ear.

“Whoever you are, I'll hunt you down," it promises. "I'll find you one day.

"And so will Death.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extraordinary delay. I won't go into details but life and work got the better of me. 
> 
> A few warnings:  
> 1) I've paid homage (in my own humble way) to a certain letter, which will be a spoiler to non-book readers. Different circumstances of course, but I thought it was worth a mention up front.  
> 2) There are some other speculative spoilers in this chapter for tv-only fans. I say "speculative" because some of the more conspiratorial aspects haven't actually been spelled out in the books and are still subject to debate. The northern lords (and ladies) mentioned all exist in book canon. They may end up in the show this season in some form, although I believe the show runners are changing names/merging characters, as they are entitled to do. So perhaps my theories won't spoil anything at all!  
> 3) This chapter has a scene with something veering dangerously close to tentacle-sex. Apologies in advance for any resultant squick. If I get feedback that it's broadly offensive I'll avoid it in future chapters/fics!

“Enough!”

Wyman Manderly’s massive fist sets the table vibrating. “This farce has gone on too long. Ten days we wasted travelling here from Winterfell. And for what? Glib promises from a kinslayer. Your words mean nothing, Crow’s Eye. Ramsay Bolton is the Warden of the North. I would rather he be King than any Greyjoy.”

He’s lying. Of that, Euron is certain. He’s been studying the White Harbour lord for hours now. The man is a heaving mass of meat: pink and layered and bursting at the seams of his doublet. It’s captivating, the way all of him quivers when he speaks. The tiniest of gestures set his body rippling, a gentle cascade that continues long after Manderly has made his point. It reminds Euron of the jelly creatures that he’d seen serenely drifting along the Jade Sea, clustering wherever the current took them and consuming anything that wandered into their path. They’d sting, if crossed, and their venom was lethal. Woe came to those who mistook their placid appearance for passivity.

There is much deception in this room, so many things being left unsaid. It had been plain from the outset that the northerners were even more divided than reported. The _Silence_ reached the Stony Shore well ahead of time, and Euron made sure to track their arrivals closely. Each house had brought a retinue of two hundred-odd soldiers to the meeting place, presumably unwilling to leave their keeps defenseless. The banners of Glover, Flint, Ryswell and Tallheart and others were flying high above their encampments, side by side with the Flayed Man. Manderly had come with Bolton, along with the Umbers and the Karstarks. They, along with a small group carrying the standard of the Twins, swelled the host to two thousand.

The presence of the Freys was a surprise, and not only to Euron. Black looks and muttering stirred in the northern camps upon sighting them. If the new Warden of the North can’t see the impending mutiny happening under his very nose, he’s a greater fool than Euron could have hoped. 

The man himself is presently sitting at the far end of the table. Ramsay Bolton is of an age with Theon and, in Euron’s estimation, far too confident in his own power. He must have been an indulged child, his depraved predilections overlooked by his equally ruthless father. Being legitimised would have solidified his sense of entitlement. His father, it would seem, paid the ultimate price for that folly.

Euron strokes the knife Bolton gifted him at the ceremonial opening of the moot. It’s long, razor-edged, the handle exquisitely carved bone. _Human_. Euron is sure of it. The bone of every animal has a distinct weight and hardness; a man’s are lighter and weaker than his four legged counterparts. The elegant hook at the end of this one identifies it as one of the bones from a man’s lower arm. It’s the father’s, most assuredly. His death had to have been wonderfully gruesome. Euron can just picture it: Ramsay elbow-deep in entrails, bone chips flying, and Roose Bolton clawing at him, realising too late the full horror of what he’d wrought in his son. 

However, Roose can’t have been responsible for Ramsay’s current disfigurement. Ramsay’s injuries are too severe to have been caused by bare hands. Four grisly scars stretch up Bolton’s right neck and jaw and extend over his cheek. The skin is there badly tethered, pulling his lower eyelid down to show the pink membrane beneath. The eyeball itself is distorted and bright red with entrapped blood. Judging by the way he intermittently massages his temple and winces, it must be painful. _Vain fool._ Two eyes or no, the man is blind. He should have had it put out and saved himself the suffering.

Through the discomfort, Ramsay’s smile never falters. Even without turning Euron can hear the curve of Ramsay’s lips when he speaks, the laughing inflection in his highborn tones. He doesn’t sound northern. Not like the other lords here, whose words are either too short or too long to Euron’s ears, or half-lost in the back of their throats. It’s not altogether unpleasant. He’s grown accustomed to the sound, thanks to Jon Snow. The mark of that lad’s homeland is constant, whether mounting a futile protest or crying out in agony. It always struck Euron as curious, the way men began to sound the same in the throes of torment. It was like they gave up all sense of self and memory, reduced to primal beings without anchor. Not Jon Snow. Euron can hear Winterfell even in his screams.  

The room is growing cold. Euron gives Manderly a wink and gets up to stoke the fire. He prods it unhurriedly and stacks two dry logs atop the embers. 

“This is outrageous," Manderly huffs. "I won’t sit here and be ignored by some ironborn cu–”

“Your umbrage is unwarranted, Lord Lamprey,” Euron interrupts, to the snickers of the ironborn guards. “I am a godly man now. My brother Aeron will confirm it.

Aeron, sitting opposite Theon, nods gravely. “Aye, he is. My brother-King is changed. His intentions are pure.”

He doesn’t elaborate on those intentions, Euron notes with amusement. _No matter._ Insincerity aside, Aeron’s support is a boon. He will assuredly savour the chance to proselytize to the peasant mainlanders.

“I have not raised my hand against the north,” Euron continues. “You must know I have the force to conquer her. You have seen my fleet in the bay. I have scores more ships in the Shield Islands and Pyke, as well others coming from Essos. I have called you here in good faith so we may meet on peaceful terms. I could have taken the White Harbour already, Manderly. I could still, should you reject my offer.”

Manderly splutters, his cheeks purpling. The Mormont woman stays him with a firm hand on his arm.

“Calm yourself, Wyman. He’s bluffing. He’s asked us here because he needs our men to take the south. The ironborn are not foot soldiers; they are pirates and pillagers. If Westeros were made entirely of fishing villages, he might have a chance. Send them a few leagues inland and it’s a different story altogether.” 

 _Insufferable wench._ If Euron had known Bear Island would send this woman to the moot, he wouldn’t have summoned them. His sources had told him Maege Mormont was dead and that her ten-year-old daughter was Lady of Mormont Keep. He had expected the castellan to be dispatched in the girl’s place. Instead, this she-bitch had come, and so far she’d done nothing other than argue Euron’s every point.

“Have you forgotten, my Lady, that the ironborn took Deepwood Motte? And Winterfell?”  

“Sneak attacks on under-manned castles," she returns scornfully. "Bolton ousted you from both, and we will be ready for you now.” 

“So you would declare him King?”  

“Lord Bolton has his hands full as Warden,” is her cautious reply. “And we cannot afford another war with the South.” 

Ramsay rises to take an exaggerated bow. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Mormont, to consider the hardship my duty entails,” he says smoothly. “I do appreciate your concern. My father’s death was so tragic and unexpected. You all know I did not seek this burden, but I will bear it. For the north. For our people. And of course, if you, my honoured lords and ladies, decide I should take up the crown, I will to bow to your wisdom.” 

Mormont’s elder daughter rolls her eyes and coughs to disguise an insult. She’s a handsome lass, strong and ample bosomed. Euron mouths her a kiss. She wrinkles her nose at him disdainfully and crosses her arms over her breasts. 

 _I’ll do for you, girl_. These haughty northern women will all learn their place. 

Euron turns back to the fire, weighing the poker in his hand. It’s glowing, ripe for use. He could end it all now by driving it into Bolton’s belly. It would slide into his soft flesh like a hot knife through butter. Few voices here would raise an objection. 

 _No, that is not the way_. For one thing, such a weapon is best reserved for slow torture; the wounds sear as they are made, preventing bleeding and corruption. Wielded judiciously, a hot iron could keep a man alive and suffering for weeks.

More importantly, Euron knows, the northerners must do the deed themselves if he’s to keep control of them long enough to deal to the south. Revolutions brought about by outsiders rarely endure. The histories of Westeros, Essos, Southros and beyond were littered with disastrous tales of interference by interlopers set on replacing one tyrant with a leader of their choosing. Without exception, the new regime was beset by insurgency when the foreign power departed. A conquest, on the other hand - that is a different matter altogether. One must stay and reign, and do so with a fist of iron. Daenerys Targaryen learned this too late. Her downfall was writ the very day she left Astapor. 

Euron slides the poker back in the rack and moves to the head of the table. In a chair nearby, Theon shrinks in his ironborn armour. Ramsay has hardly shifted his gaze from him in since the moot began. 

“For the people, you say Lord Bolton? Aye, that is a noble purpose. I have heard much about what you have done for your people. What you did to my sweet nephew.” 

 _Oh and how sweet he is._ That he leaves unsaid, hanging in the air for the suspicious to hear. Ramsay grasps it; his composure wavers momentarily. Euron answers by way of a knowing grin.

He'd used Theon mercilessly over the last two weeks, and it had been a delicious occupation. He was always so beautifully responsive, no matter how brutal the taking. In the day, Euron rewarded him by instructing him in the crossbow. His aim was remarkable; the lad had a gift. Occasionally, Theon would smirk at his success, revealing shades of the cocky boy Euron remembered. Those good days were inevitably followed by fraught nights, when Euron degraded him utterly. Having been built up, Theon had so much farther to fall. 

_He loves me and dreads me. As all shall._

Euron stoops to kiss the crown of Theon’s head. An innocent gesture, most would think, a sign of affection from an uncle to his suffering nephew. As Euron suspected, Ramsay sees through it. His smile vanishes.

“ _Bastard!_ ” he hisses.

The heads at the table swing to him in astonishment. Only the man beside Bolton, grey haired and black robed, is unperturbed by the outburst. His mien is measured and shrewd. 

Ramsay takes a breath and finds a fresh smile. “I beg your pardon, my lords, my ladies. I was thinking of the bastard. You haven’t produced him yet, Lord Greyjoy. I hope you weren’t lying to us.” 

“Who cares about the Winterfell bastard?” a Frey man challenges. His nose is beaked, his skin pock marked. “The Starks never did nothing for us.” 

“Never did _anything_ ,” Mormont corrects. “You’re not of the north, Raymund Frey, so your opinion means nothing. You shouldn’t even be here. If I were you, I’d focus on staying quiet and out of sight. There are many here who thirst for Frey blood.”

The man bristles. “We’re here with Lord Bolton. We’re under his protection.” 

“Yes, Lady Mormont, I did give them my word about that.” Ramsay leans lazily back in his chair. "They’re here to discuss access to the Riverlands, which we’ll need if the south brings the fight to us. It’d make negotiations with Walder a bit awkward if we let his sons come to harm. Also,” he adds mildly, “On a personal level, I’d be very disappointed.” 

“Bah!” Harrion Karstark spits. “Well I’m of the north, and I couldn’t give two shits about any Stark son, legitimate or no. Leave him to Greyjoy’s mercy.” 

The man swills his wine, letting it drip down his chin. Euron considers him. Harrion Karstark’s cheeks are sunken and wan, a result of months spent in Lannister custody. His escape was a recent thing, according to Nute. He’d come to the moot as the new Lord of Karhold. He’s an honest man, Euron surmises, lacking in the patience for subterfuge and diplomacy. _Good._ A man who shows his tiles to his opponent makes a very poor player indeed. Besting him will be a simple task.

“Come now, Lord Karstark,” Lord Glover chides him. “Jon Snow is not responsible for what happened to your father.” 

“He’s responsible for marrying my daughter off to a Thenn.”

“Better that than your uncle’s ugly son. Wasn’t that what Arthor had in mind for her? So he could swindle you out of your inheritance while the Lannisters held you, and have Karhold for his own?” 

“Maybe he did. I’ll never know now, since he and his sons are dead. That was Snow’s doing as well. He wrote a letter betraying them to Stannis.” 

Glover sighs. “For the Gods’ sake, Harrion, let it go. Men die in war. Your brothers died at the hands of Jaime Lannister. Two Lannister children died at the hands of your father. Robb Stark killed your father. Roose Bolton and Walder Frey killed Robb Stark, his mother and thousands of our men. We have to put an end to this. The north must unite.” 

“Aye, we must,” the Mormont woman concurs. “And I want to see this lad. If it’s true that he’s Eddard Stark’s son, no matter what we decide here, we can’t leave him in Greyjoy hands. The Old Gods only know what he’s done to him already. He could be dead or in pieces. Or both.”

The Bear Island retinue murmur agreement. They’re a towering horde, aside from her two daughters and the small, dark haired man sloping against the wall. Euron marks him. He’s been watching the proceedings closer than any other.  

“Worry not, my Lady.” Euron takes his seat and motions a serving boy to bring wine. “Jon Snow is alive and intact and prettier than both your daughters. Which is more than can be said for my poor nephew here, after being detained at Bolton’s pleasure.”

“Your nephew is a traitor, Lord Greyjoy.” Ramsay manages to sound bored. “I’ll admit I did have to use some novel methods to extract his confession. It was important, you understand, for the security of the north.” 

“Ah. In the name of the north’s security, was it? I heard the tale told differently. And was it for the benefit of the north that you flayed Lord Cerwyn, I wonder? His wife and brother?”

“Yes,” Ramsay says flatly. 

“Well then, if the interests of the north are dear to your heart, you must be eager to meet the bastard of Winterfell.” Euron nods to Petyr, who slips out of the hall. “Perhaps when you’ve laid eyes upon him, you will reconsider my offer."  

The jangle of chains brings the buzzing conversation to an end. Jon’s been dressed in the nearest thing to Stark battle attire the boatswain could find: a dark blue tunic under brown leather armour and a black cloak. His hair has been half gathered back and tied with a strip of leather in the northern style. It’s a messy job, many of the strands springing free to frame his pale face. He's not been shaved since Euron cut the slave girl's hand, leaving him with the beginnings of what will become a full, dark beard.  _A ghost._ That’s what he looks like. A ghost of Starks and winters past. The iron collar is just visible at the base of his throat, which is quite intentional. No one should be able to mistake him, or to whom he currently belongs. 

Petyr makes a good show of it, jerking Jon roughly by the leash so that he stumbles on his bad leg. On the final day of the journey to the Stony Shore, the galley master had beaten Jon soundly for falling out of rhythm. One blow from the oar landed square on his left ankle, leaving him swollen and limping. As Petyr draws him near, Jon trips a second time and falls heavily to one knee at Euron’s side. 

Euron suppresses a laugh. He couldn’t have designed the entrance better if he’d tried. He produces a key with a flourish for all to see and leans down to unlock the chains. In the corner of his eye, he catches Aeron’s look of stern disapproval.

A familiar heat flares in Euron at Jon’s closeness. He hasn’t bedded the lad since the violent episode in the Shield Islands. His niece had the right of it, Euron had realised; he couldn’t keep such a deadly man nearby. Euron had him taken him away to be locked in a cell below deck, and the loss of the magic that linked them left him bereft. To slake his thirst, he had been visiting Jon at night, watching him toss restlessly in sleep. It was barely enough to sustain him. They touched minds just once, two days after Jon’s attack, in an incident that was more disturbing than fulfilling.

That night, he’d arrived at Jon’s cell to discover him writhing soundlessly on the floor. From the way the bedclothes were strewn, he looked to have been dragged from the cot; one edge of the blanket was clutched in his fist. At first, Euron thought the direwolf had taken possession of Jon’s body once more, and even with the bars that separated them, his heart leapt in alarm. A second glance quashed the notion. There was no red in Jon’s eyes, no animal strength in his tortured movements. His skin was ashen and prickled by cold.

Euron unveiled his left eye, and it was as he feared: the Night’s King’s had found Jon again. Thick ropes of ice were crawling all over him, pinning his wrists and holding his ankles apart. One frozen coil had invaded Jon’s mouth to stifle his cries, but he was aware; his eyes were open wide with shock. He wrenched his shoulders, breaking the bonds encircling his arms, only to have new ice form around him and clinch down tight.

The creature’s magic must have been growing stronger the further the Silence sailed north. Its malign hunger was palpable. Euron’s own lust stirred, pushing his possessive instincts aside. Jon arched urgently away from an ice tendril slithering up between his legs. Euron watched, captivated, as it slid slowly up Jon’s right thigh, dividing and winding around his hips and pulling him back to the floor. One branch circled back to twist over his manhood, curving underneath and searching for the way inside. With each miniscule advance, Jon twitched and gave a muted mewl of distress that brought a swirl of desire to Euron’s belly.

In that instant, an inhuman shriek had filled Euron’s mind. The wrath it held was ancient and profound. In response, the ice throbbed and clamped harder around Jon’s body. He snapped rigid, eyelids fluttering, and suddenly Euron felt it as well, the intense agony of the Night’s King’s embrace. He was too stunned to scream. He doubled over and grabbed the bars of the cell to keep from falling. Frost tipped fingers emerged from the darkness to touch Jon’s left breast. To Euron, it felt like a knife piercing his heart. 

The otherworldly screech rang anew, this time joined by a haunting, faraway howl. The eerie harmony sent the ice into a high-pitched hum, and the piece filling Jon’s mouth fell away. Jon jolted and released a full-throated scream, bringing the chorus to a crescendo. The ice pulsed a few moments more, then shattered.  

After that, there was nothing. Jon immediately sank into unconsciousness, and the cell fell silent. The predatory presence was gone.

Euron had kept vigil until morning and moved the red priest to a nearby cell to watch over Jon thereafter. He didn’t wake for two days, the priest testified, and was lethargic for few days more. Against the red priest’s advice, Euron sent the lad back to the galley when he seemed capable; not as a punishment, but to ensure he was observed at all times. The galley master reported that Jon was subdued and uncharacteristically clumsy. By all accounts, neither the Night’s King nor the direwolf ever returned. 

Wolf or not, Jon is not docile now. His eyes are glinting and hostile, cheeks reddened by the whipping winds outside. Once his hands are free he shoves Euron away, his mouth open to launch into what Euron guesses will be an impassioned appeal to the northerners or a curse-filled insult. He’s not in the mood to tolerate either. He puts a stop to it by yanking the lad close and pressing a finger to Jon’s lips. 

“No, dear boy. Remember the child. Remember how the girl wailed when I halved her hand.” This, Euron whispers into Jon’s ear. Louder he says, “You shall not speak, Jon Snow, not unless I give leave. You shall not move. You shall not bite. Nod to let me know you understand, bastard.”

Jon does so, though everything else about him screams bloody murder. His spine stiffens indignantly.

“You don’t need to humiliate the boy,” Glover growls. “A look was all we asked for. Just to see he was unharmed.”

“Aye, and now you can see I am true my word. He is whole.” 

“So you say, Crow’s Eye,” a Hornwood man chimes in. “He’s lame.”

“Not nearly so lame as he should be,” Karstark argues. “I heard Jon Snow was killed at the Wall for betraying his brothers not four months past. Did you think you could trick us by bringing out some black haired bastard with a bit of a limp, Greyjoy? I was told he was stabbed five times. If he didn’t die, he should at least still be abed with his injuries.”

“That’s incorrect, my Lord,” a soft voice interjects. It’s the grey haired man at Bolton’s side. “With expert care, he could have been nursed back to health." 

“By who?” Karstark sneers. “You, Qyburn? I’ve heard all about your expert care. The Citadel stripped you of your maester’s chain for a reason.”  

The grey man smoothes the folds of his robe. “Yes. The Citadel is regretfully unimaginative in their approach to the healing arts. Nevertheless I can assure you my work has yielded excellent results. Lord Bolton here is proof of that. He would have died had I not been there to treat the corruption of his wounds.” 

“Yes, Qyburn. I am in your debt,” Ramsay says disinterestedly. His gaze is trained on Jon. “It was truly fortunate that you made your way to Winterfell when you did. However, I’m inclined to agree with Lord Karstark. I had a cousin at the Wall who saw what happened. I find it very hard to believe that Snow survived the attack.” 

“If you really had a cousin at the Wall, Bolton, I’ll wager his hand held one of the knives. And he should also have told you the body disappeared,” Glover returns. “It’s a possibility worth investigating at least. Isn’t that why we’re here?” 

“Aye,” Mormont nods. “And I would hear from him. My brother Jeor was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Tell me of him, lad.”

“Answer her, Jon Snow. You have my permission.”

Jon sends him a long, baleful glare before inclining his head respectfully to Mormont. “The Old Bear was the best of men, my Lady,” he begins. “Maester Aemon said he was the greatest Lord Commander he’d served under in his lifetime. I’m not sure I can explain everything that made him...” Jon hesitates, mouth downturned sadly. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with words. I can tell you his men loved him and respected him. Many gladly gave their lives in his honour. The men who turned on him were cowards. I don’t know if this will comfort you, my Lady but they paid for what they did. I saw to it myself.”

“It does, lad, if it be true. My brother had a sword. What became of it?” 

“Longclaw? He gave it to me, my Lady. I know –“ Jon pauses again. “I know it was meant for his son. I didn’t ask for such a gift. If it was within my power, I’d return it to you.”

“He passed it to you?” Mormont blinks. “Well then. I suppose my brother would not have handed it over lightly. Aye, it was meant for Jorah. His dishonour brought his father great shame. It’s a precious thing he gave you. It’s the last remaining Valyrian blade of our house. Where is it?”

Euron claps his hands. “Oho! Now there’s a piece of luck. It is on my ship, Lady Mormont. I shall send a man to retrieve it. Mayhap it will convince you of Jon Snow’s identity.”

“A sword can be stolen,” Ramsay counters.

“I didn’t steal it. And you know me, Bolton,” Jon says darkly. “We met at the Dreadfort.”

Euron spies a small twitch of annoyance in Ramsay’s jaw.

“Really? I don’t remember it.” 

“I doubt that. It wasn’t that long ago. Five, maybe six years? A girl was murdered in one of the villages while your father was away. Lord Stark was called in to issue the judgment. Your castellan didn’t like you very much, did he? He didn’t care you were Roose’s son. He arrested you and beat you within a hair of your life. Robb and I saw you in the cells. You cried for your father and begged for your release.” 

“Lord Stark found me innocent,” Ramsay says tersely.

“Aye. Funny how all the witnesses disappeared. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that? My father couldn’t convict you but he made sure Lord Bolton paid the family a high blood price. Robb and I had a wager about what Roose would do to you when he got home. I guessed you’d be whipped. Robb said a bit of flaying would be better justice.” 

“It was a whipping,” Qyburn murmurs.

“Yes.” Jon gives a rare half-smile. “I won.” 

”Apologies, my Lord Bolton,” Qyburn demurs off Ramsay’s scowl. “I’ve spoken out of turn.” 

“Gods, out with it man,” Manderly groans. “If you know the truth, speak up. Let’s get this done. I’m starving.” 

“Thank you, my Lord. If I may explain: I spent time in the north some years ago, well before Roose Bolton welcomed me back into his service at Harrenhal. I was at the Dreadfort at the time of your arrest and trial, my Lord Ramsay. You may not remember me, for you were, shall I say, quite distraught? I recognise the Stark bastard. He shadowed his brother everywhere.”

Ramsay leans on his elbow, expression bland. Qyburn bears the scrutiny calmly, steepling his fingers.

“It is not a falsehood, my Lord, and I beg you to consider this: it’s best to acknowledge him now, so you can determine his fate. If you continue to deny it, others will find him and use him to their own ends.”

Ramsay seems to have no answer for that. His frown is lopsided and ugly. He scrapes his chair out and strolls to Euron’s end of the table, stopping beside Theon on the way. He brushes his fingers along the back of Theon’s neck and whispers something that makes him shudder.

Finally he comes to stand in front of Jon. He cocks his head.

“Hmmm. No,” he declares. “I don’t see it. Are you sure about this, Qyburn? He’s a little short for a Stark, isn’t he? Eddard and Robb were much bigger.”

“Ha! That’s rich. Your father was two heads taller than you,” the younger Mormont girl snorts. Ramsay ignores at her, stroking his chin.

“Wait a moment. Wait…” He grabs a handful of Jon’s curls to tip his head back. “There you are, bastard! I couldn’t see you for all the hair. Impractical, if you ask me. Doesn’t it get in your face when you’re fighting?” 

“Give me a sword, Bolton, and you’ll find out,” Jon shoots back. 

Ramsay cups his ear. “Was that a threat? Sorry, I can’t quite hear you from down there. You do know you’re on your knees, don’t you bastard? And on a _leash_? Lessens the impact a bit, wouldn’t you say? You’re an arrogant little shit, Snow. Always have been. Prancing around with your stupid brother, thinking you were better than me. Now look where we are. I’m the Warden of the North. And you? You’re still a bastard.” 

“I’d rather be a bastard of Eddard Stark than Roose Bolton’s son.”

“Are you still clinging to that name? The one you don’t have? How sad. You haven’t changed at all.”

“You have,” Jon returns quickly. “I don’t remember those scars. It was Sansa, wasn’t it?” 

Ramsay’s gleeful demeanour evaporates. “Who told you that?” 

Jon’s solemn face reveals nothing. 

“ _That little bitch._ I tracked her to the woods. My dogs had her cornered, and then all of a sudden they were attacked by a pack of wolves. She slashed me while I was down, can you believe that? I would have died if my men hadn’t arrived. She ran away with her beasts, but I’ll find her. She’ll regret leaving me.”

“No, she won’t. You won’t find her. You won’t touch her ever again.” He sounds so convinced of it, Euron sees uncertainty flicker in Ramsay’s eyes. 

Jon stands with some effort, grimacing. “I told you not to move, boy,” Euron warns, but he allows the leash slacken anyway. Something tells him this must play out. 

“Do you know what kind of man he is? Do you have any idea who you’re actually in bed with?” Jon asks the assembled men and women. “He raped and tortured my sister Sansa. The Lady of Winterfell. A trueborn daughter of Lord and Lady Stark. If I find out that any of you knew about it and stood aside, I swear on my father’s honour I’ll get justice from you. After I've finished with the Boltons and the Freys."

His sweeping gaze is cold and imposing, recalling the commander he once was. Euron has to hold back a crow of triumph. Snow is making his case for him.

“What's this?" Manderly says, frowning.

"You heard me, Lord Manderly. Question the maidservants at Winterfell. Theon tells me some of them remain loyal to my family. They'll tell you it's true."

The White Habour lord blanches. "I-I had no idea. I can promise you that. I doubt any one else here –“ He casts his eyes downward. “If I’d known, I would have done things differently.”

Now that is an intriguing statement. The man must be hiding more than Euron guessed.

“How could you not have known?” Jon retorts. “You and Umber were there! And you, Lord Ryswell, Lady Dustin. Theon told me you were all his guests. Didn’t you think to check on your Lady’s welfare?” 

Barbrey Dustin is unmoved. “Why should I do that, boy?” she asks bitterly. “The Starks have brought me nothing but sorrow.” 

“Hush, daughter,” Lord Ryswell says hurriedly. “Lad, I promise you, we didn’t have any idea.” 

“Bolton,” Mormont demands. “Is this the truth? Did you dishonour our Lady?” 

“No. It’s all lies.” Ramsay drapes himself over the back of Theon’s chair. “Told by this turncloak and repeated by a bastard.”

Euron senses the dissent amid the northerners. Umber and Glover have their heads together, whispering. The others flick their eyes between Ramsay and Jon uncomfortably.

_The water has been chummed. Now to let the sharks circle._

“My Lords, my ladies. I think Lord Manderly had the right of it. The day has been long. May I suggest you retire to your camps to sup? I will take my leave of you, so that you may consider my proposal amongst yourselves. I know you have much to discuss. Lady Mormont, I will have my men deliver the sword to you. You may inspect it at your leisure.”

“I don’t like this, Greyjoy,” Mormont says stubbornly. “None of it.”

“I understand, my lady. War is a nasty business,” Euron readily agrees. “Fear not for this lad, for I have no urgent plans to dispose of him. Please, think upon all I have said. I will await your reply.” 

She nods grudgingly. “Come then, my lords, my ladies. We shall gather in my tent.” 

The host files out at her order, and soon, only the Freys, Karstarks and Boltons remain. The air is heavy with hostility. And something else. Something _wicked._

Aeron will not like what is about to unfold here.

“Brother, take an escort and return to the _Silence_. The sword is in the black iron chest in the hold below the cells. Find it and send a reliable man to take it to Lady Mormont.”

Aeron nods somberly and obeys, a train of seaweed following him out the door. He must have drowned new believers this very morning.

“We can’t accept this, Ramsay,” Karstark says when Aeron is gone. “I don’t give a pig’s prick what the rest of them have to say.” 

“I happen to agree, Lord Karstark,” Ramsay replies. 

“Why keep talking then? This whole meeting is a waste of time.” 

Ramsay picks up a lock of Theon’s hair and curls it around his finger casually. “I have my reasons, my Lord.” 

“Pfft. Ridiculous. I could have been back in my keep by now. I haven’t been home since Robb Stark called the banners. Anyway, I still don’t believe it. Where are his scars?” 

Euron chuckles. “Your own Warden has confirmed who he is, and yet you question. How strange, Lord Bolton, that your vassals don’t take you at your word. Very well, Jon Snow. These men would see your body. I cannot blame you, my Lords. He is indeed a pleasure to look upon.”

Karstark rumbles in disgust. “That’s not what this is about Greyjoy. I want no part in your perversions. Just get on with it.” 

Euron gives Jon’s leash a gentle tug. “You heard the man, Jon. Strip.”

Jon stares back with utter loathing. He does as ordered, though, the servant girl’s cries no doubt fresh in his memory. Euron had waited to fulfill his promise until Aeron had disembarked the _Silence_ at Pyke and Jon had regained his senses well enough to properly appreciate her suffering. Jon’s reaction was all Euron hoped. He fought the men holding him, alternately shouting and pleading for Euron to stop. Euron made sure the girl knew who was responsible for her maiming. Her tear-stained expression of betrayal had brought Jon to his knees in despair.

Jon slings off his cloak and pulls at the buckles of the leather armour. His movements are short and sharp, speaking to his anger; he seems to want to get it done. The gambeson and undershirt follow, then his boots and breeches. He flings them at Euron’s feet and stands boldly, his fists curled at his sides.

He’s achingly beautiful. His full lips are pressed into a frown, his pretty eyes open wide and defiant. Firelight flickers over his body, highlighting muscle and shadowing bone. The play of the flames looks deliberate; carnal. A trick of the light, Euron thinks.

 _Or R’hllor’s_ _caress._

The Gods never claimed to be above desire. In the Age of Heroes, some took mortal form and walked the earth, stopping at nothing to satisfy their baser cravings. They destroyed homes and towns to test the pious; they set laws down in stone that were impossible for men to keep. They took what they wanted, as gods should do, to keep their people fearing and worshipful. To punish unbelievers, the loveliest maids and youths of the village were stolen and subjected to most heinous wickedness: a ravishing by a god in bestial guise. Few survived the ordeal. Those who did wished they had not.

Jon would attract such a god’s gaze, Euron thinks. His bastard blood burns in him, enhancing his beauty and making his hopeless virtue too easy to despoil. Snow and all his desperate honour would make a pretty package too tempting for a malicious god to resist.

_I am your vessel now, R’hllor. I am all Gods made flesh. You have chosen me, and I have claimed Jon Snow in your stead._

Ramsay circles Jon slowly. “There you go, Karstark. The scars fit.” He’s trying for nonchalance and failing; his lingering leer betrays his interest. “I see he’s been causing you trouble,” he remarks, pointing to the bruises on Jon’s legs. “I can give you a few tips on that if you like.” 

“I think not, Bolton,” Euron says wryly. “I’ll not have you damaging my property.” 

“Property? You think he’s yours? He’s not, you know. He thinks he’s a Stark. Look at him standing there, all high and mighty. You’re not even close to breaking him.” 

“And why would I want to do such a thing? The lad has fight in him. I quite enjoy it.” 

“Each to his own, I suppose.” Ramsay says cheerfully. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You know, a flaying is a remarkably effective way of humbling a man. And I do like to leave my mark. It’s family tradition.” He smiles at Theon fondly, who quakes and shuts his eyes. “Of course if your knife skills are lacking, you could get him tattooed. I hear they do it to their slaves in Essos. Or brand him! I quite like a good branding. You could mark him with your squid or crow, or eye… thing.” He motions mockingly to the symbol on Theon’s chest plate. “Well, whatever that sigil is. Otherwise, if you misplace him, how will anyone know who to send him back to? He could become anyone’s, really.” 

The implication is not lost on Euron. “I think not, Bolton. This one is mine. Let me show you.” He beckons to Jon. “Come, boy.” 

Snow is reluctant to submit to the command. He steps forward, wary, and recoils when Euron drags him in for a kiss.

Euron has rarely indulged this in the past, the intimate press of lips. Even the filthiest whores he had in his youth would baulk at such an act. They’d rather be fucked senseless than give up the kiss they were saving for some prince who would whisk them away from their wretched lives. At thirteen, he ripped out the tongue of the fourth whore who rejected him thus, brandishing the bloody organ to the brothel owner in victory. He’d taken thousands since, for politics and for pleasure, casting them into the sea for the fish to feed upon. The Storm God and the Drowned had repaid him a hundred fold. 

Euron pulls Jon closer, forcing his lips apart with his tongue. His mouth is hot compared to the chill of his skin. He twists in Euron's arms and makes a grunt of complaint that thrums across Euron’s lips. It’s a lovely sensation, but altogether it’s not the demonstration of surrender Euron needs. To drive the point home, he wrests Jon away and forces him down over the table. 

“Do you feel the eyes upon you, Jon Snow?” Euron traces the contours of Jon’s back, gliding down to his hips. “There are – oh a dozen or so men here, I think. Freys and Boltons and Karstarks. And here you are, bare and bent over here in front of them all. You should see their faces, Snow. Down to a man, they want you. Perhaps I should let them have you. Let them feel you break apart beneath them, as I have. It’s a delight worth sharing.”

“I’ll ‘ave a go,” a Frey says eagerly. “What?” he asks defensively at Karstark’s horrified expression. “I been on the road for weeks!” 

“He looks like a girl anyway,” one of his brothers joins in. “He might as well have a twat.” 

“We’ll have to shut him up,” a younger Frey says. “So the rest don’t hear. Give him something to bite on.” 

“How about your cock, Jammos?” another teases. “It’s not like you get to use it much.”

Karstark chokes in revulsion. “ _Filthy fucking Freys!_ Go stick your tiny pricks in each other if you’re so starved for a fuck.”

“You don’t command us, Karstark,” the oldest Frey snaps back. “Robb Stark insulted our family. He thought he was too good for our sisters. It’s only right we get our own back on his brother.” 

“You’ve had your revenge a thousand times over, Lothar Frey. And you listen to me, Crow’s Eye. Leave the lad be. This is obscene.” 

Euron merely smiles and unsheathes the Bolton blade. It’s ice cold from base to tip, making it seem deadlier somehow, crueler. He presses the point to the nape of Jon’s neck and runs the knife lightly down his spine. A thin line of blood blooms in its wake. When Euron reaches his arse, Jon stiffens and inhales sharply.

“Stop!” he gasps.

“No don’t,” Ramsay says. He’s petting Theon’s hair now, his eyes shining. “Things are just getting interesting."

“Seven Hells, Bolton,” Karstark growls. “Snow was telling the truth about you and the Stark girl, wasn’t he? I won’t have this. No more, Greyjoy.“

“Oh do shut up, Karstark.” Ramsay clicks his fingers. “Hurry up, Greyjoy. I want to see how this ends. Are you going to use the handle or the blade?”

“Ah. I admire your appetite, my Lord Bolton. I could use either, or both. My bastard will bear anything I wish, for he knows who will take his place if he does not.”

Euron waits for the words to sink in. The Freys exchange confused glances at the desolate moan Jon gives in answer. After a few moments, he shakily lifts up from the table to brace himself on his elbows.

“Ah,” Euron purrs. “You see, my lords? Even a wolf can be tamed. Such obedience should be rewarded, wouldn't you say, Karstark?” 

It’s not a question Euron expects to be answered. He puts the blade aside and frees his cock from his breeches, and then leans down to croon into Jon’s neck. 

“Your reward is mercy.”

Euron nudges his cock between Jon’s buttocks, ready to drive in. A sword at his throat stops him from going further. 

“I said no, Greyjoy,” Harrion Karstark says calmly. “Get off him, or I’ll cut you off.”

Euron’s guards start toward them, weapons drawn. Euron holds up his hand to halt their advance. 

“What troubles you, Karstark?” Euron asks innocently. “Are you truly so revolted by the idea of men lying together? Some men prefer a pretty boy to a pretty lass. It’s commoner than you think.”

“What men do in their own beds is their business. This is different and you know it. I don’t hold with rapers.”

“Oh come on. Don’t you get it?” Ramsay says merrily. “It’s a Dreadfort forged knife. He saying I raped the north, now he’ll rape the north...you know. That sort of thing.” 

“You have hit upon it, Lord Bolton,” Euron says, “For truly Jon Snow is like your wild north: beautiful and deadly and rich in treasure for the man who conquers him. But Lord Karstark has made himself plain.” 

With that, Euron steps away, tucking his cock back into his breeches.

“Such a spoilsport, Karstark.” Ramsay links his hand with Theon’s. “Come on Reek. I’m feeling inspired. Let’s get back to my tent and discuss why you ran away from me.”

“No,” Jon rasps. “You can’t hand him to this monster”

“Another monster, is it Jon Snow? Am I less of one than Bolton, or more so?” Euron waves his hand dismissively. “Do not answer, boy. It is of no consequence. Petyr, take your men and escort Jon Snow back to the ship. He has served his purpose here.” 

“No he hasn’t,” the youngest Frey mutters sullenly. 

“My poor nephew also is in dire need of rest tonight,” Euron announces, once Jon has been removed. “You must accept my apologies, Lord Bolton, I cannot give Theon to you yet. I have need of him for the remainder of this moot.” _By which time, Ramsay will be dead._ Jon’s revelation about Sansa Stark will leave the northerners little choice.

“We made a deal, Greyjoy,” Ramsay snarls.

“Aye, we did. You’ll have him back. _At the end of the moot_. If I should return him to you now, I suspect I’ll not have the pleasure of your company tomorrow.”

“So you’re a liar.” Ramsay’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You have her, too, don’t you. You’re hiding her somewhere. That’s how you’re controlling Jon Snow.” 

Euron frowns. “Sansa Stark? No, Bolton, I don’t have your wife.” Euron produces a sly grin. “But I hear she is exquisite. If I do ever meet her, I promise I will give her your regards.” 

Hatred distorts Ramsay’s scarred face. “We’ll see about that.” 

He curtly turns on his heel. After a moment of confused silence, the Frey and Karstark parties shuffle out as well, muttering. The door rattles when Harrion Karstark slams it shut.

“Well, nephew. I think that went fairly well, don’t you?" Euron ruffles Theon’s hair affectionately. “It’ll work out for the best, lad, you’ll see. And you there, by the door. Qyburn, is it? Speak or take your leave. Your hovering is grinding on my last piece of patience.” 

Qyburn bows. “I beg your pardon, your Grace. It’s just that I noticed your wounds. I would recommend a poultice for them. Human bites inevitably become corrupted otherwise.” 

Euron regards him coolly. “Human, you say?” 

“Yes. From Jon Snow I believe.” 

“Oh? What makes you think such a thing?”

“A mere matter of deduction, your Grace. Those are a man’s teeth marks at the edge of your neck. Your nephew is meek and your men are loyal. That leaves the bastard. Am I right?” 

Euron takes a sip of his wine instead of answering. This man is too cunning for comfort. 

“His direwolf was in him,” Theon whispers. 

“What do you mean, young man?” Qyburn asks. 

“He’s a warg. He can go into the mind of his wolf. To escape.” There’s a distant wistfulness in Theon's tone. “His direwolf comes into him sometimes too.” 

“Hush, nephew,” Euron warns. “He’s babbling, Maester. Bolton has left him enfeebled.” 

“Really? I’d like to think he’s telling the truth. I’ve heard of such a phenomenon, although I’ve never witnessed it myself. How fascinating.” 

Euron curses under his breath. Theon has given away far too much. “He can’t control it,” he tries, to dampen the man’s interest. “I’ve only seen him do it a handful of times.” 

Qyburn lifts his palms in appeasement. “Don’t worry, your Grace,” he says. “I have no plans to tell Ramsay. To be frank, I’ve grown rather tired of him of late. He’s got a nasty habit of killing anyone who displeases him, leaving nothing for me to work on. I can examine the corpses of course, and my understanding of anatomy has come a long way in the last month. But beyond that there’s not much one can learn from otherwise young and healthy dead bodies.” 

“Why did you go the Dreadfort, then, Maester Qyburn?”

He shrugs. “I had some spare time. The Queen Mother’s trial has been put back, as you may know, and my other work had been completed. I suggested to His Majesty King Tommen that I should come north to investigate Bolton’s intentions. I’d been travelling for three weeks, and then came upon Ramsay on the road a day away from Winterfell. His injuries were in an advanced stage of putrefaction. The knife Sansa Stark used was poisoned.”

Euron raises an eyebrow. “Wherever did the girl get poison if she’d been wandering alone in the forest for weeks?”

“She must have brewed it. There’s a particular mushroom in that part of the world that’s deadly if you distill it in the correct way. She would have had to source the exact amounts of queenscap and pettiflower – they are the activating materials, you understand. One must dilute the juice of each exactly, then boil the mixture, filter it… It’s an altogether drearily protracted procedure. Miss a step, and the concoction is harmless. She would have needed instruction. From whom – that I don’t know.”

“Mayhap it was the Crannogmen,” Euron suggests. “They are devoted to the Starks. Bolton would not have seen them even if he knew where to look. They have a gift for hiding in plain sight. They could have found the Stark girl and taken her under their protection.” 

“And yet I saw no Reed banner here, your Grace. If they held the Starks so dear, would they not have come for Jon Snow?” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The men of House Reed are rumoured to be greenseers. Mayhap they saw the outcome and chose not to interfere.”

“Greenseers too? What wondrous times we live in,” Qyburn muses. “I don’t believe in magic, Your Grace. There must be some physiologic explanation for everything. I’d like to study Jon Snow further, if I may. I think a period of observation and a few simple tests may reveal a great deal. I can offer you all of the standard maester’s services in return. Assuming, that is, you are willing to forgive my lack of official credentials.”

Euron doesn’t have to think on it for long. His gut tells him the man can be trusted; Qyburn’s disdain for Bolton rings true. Besides, soon he’ll have no other master to serve. 

“I accept. Come to me at the conclusion of the moot. I will have Ramsay well in hand by then.” 

“Excellent. I look forward to a productive partnership.” 

“As do I. Until then, Maester Qyburn.” 

Euron actually misses the man when he leaves. His commentary was astute; certainly he must have other interesting tales to tell. In Qyburn’s absence, the next few hours are tedious. Ramsay has left Theon too rattled to provide good company, so Euron sends him back to the ship. He spends the next two hours alone, staring into the fire. The flames give him no guidance.

He’s of half a mind to return to the _Silence_ when the Lady of Bear Island finally sends word. The meeting is a frustrating affair. She verifies the authenticity of the sword and her belief in Jon’s heritage, but is mulishly guarded about her intentions for him. 

Euron is just about to launch into the core of the debate when he hears the clash of steel and the battle call of the ironborn on the shore.

_An attack._

It’s not entirely unforeseen, although Euron had anticipated it happening at the end of the moot, not during. Regardless, he is prepared. His camp alone is two thousand strong, and the fleet is but a short distance from the bay. Together, they will make swift work of this. 

The battle fervour takes him, bringing an uncontrollable cackle to his tongue. He whips a long handled axe from the nearest Mormont and sprints to the ironborn camp. At once, Euron is in the thick of it, hewing flesh and bone.

Their numbers don’t match Euron’s, and if they’re flying a banner it’s too dark to see. The ironborn follow him as he carves a path, splitting unknown soldiers left and right. In the bay, his men on the _Silence_ are dropping rowboats into the water and lighting torches to call the rest of the fleet to land.

There are campfires at the perimeter of the battle, and soldiers standing by, neutral and curious. Euron recognises Mors Umber, who has come out of his tent to watch. Euron hacks his way to him.

“What’s the meaning of this, Whoresbane?” he bellows as he strikes a man down. 

“I know not, Crow’s Eye,” Umber shouts back. “Most of these men aren’t from around here. It’s your fight to win or lose. We’ll treat with the victor.” 

Umber casually throws a log on the fire, and the roar of light falls upon the last man Euron slew. On his breast is the blue falcon of the Vale. 

_“Fall back to the ship!”_

He knows with awful sureness that it is the target, as he foresaw. By the time he gets to the _Silence_ , she is teeming with flayed men. There are perhaps three hundred, well armed and methodical. The first mate is leading the crew in a spirited defense, and Theon has taken position at the high point of the stern, steadily felling men with his crossbow. He’s inexplicably removed the armour he was wearing at the moot. Jon is below and similarly vulnerable: he’s unfettered but only half clothed and barefoot. He’s slicing through the soldiers swarming on the deck, and each time he swings, he risks a blade striking home in his exposed chest or belly.

Jon was bared so in Euron’s vision, but the rest is all wrong. There is no sunlight, no smoke in the air. Theon has the reckless bearing of a man set on death, and Jon is pale and tiring fast. He wields two short swords, not his Valyrian blade. His bad leg makes him slow and unsteady. 

 _The future is not set in stone,_ the priest had said. The words mock Euron now. 

He leaps into the fray, yelling for his men to follow. He lodges his axe into the back of a Vale knight and rips the broadsword from his dead fingers. He hefts it in both hands and takes a Frey’s head from his shoulders. He catches the soldier beside him in the same arc, gutting him. His men surge around, berserk for blood and death, and for a dozen giddy heartbeats, Euron believes the tide has turned.

It all falls apart before his very eye. In between slashes, he catches nightmarish glimpses of the scene ahead.

Jon is awash in the blood of the enemy, swaying perceptibly on his feet. He's on the brink of collapse. Theon drops down to the deck to aid him, and lands awkwardly. His crossbow is knocked from his hands.

A blade whistles precariously close to Jon’s flank; he rears away from it and parries, elbowing the next soldier and ducking the axe of a third.

Theon scoops up a knife to slit the knight’s throat, not seeing the two flayed men approaching.

Jon lunges to catch him as Theon is tackled overboard. He misses. A blow from a mailed fist stuns him, and then he too is hoisted up and over into the sea.

Euron yells in wordless rage and stalks across the deck, cutting down anyone in his way. He strikes five men in quick succession; too late, he sees three of them are his own. Petyr’s dead eyes stare at Euron reproachfully. Euron feels no guilt as he kicks the corpse from his path. _You shall all feast in the Drowned God’s hall tonight. I have given you glory._

It’s all for naught. He reaches the railing in time to see Theon and Jon being fished from the sea into a boat manned by the enemy.

Without hesitation, he dives in. He learns the stupidity of it the instant he breaks the surface. It’s freezing; far colder than any water he’s swum in before. Pain explodes behind his eyes and he's sucked beneath the waves before he can cry out for help.

He’s under for what seems like an eternity, thrashing and disorientated. He inhales seawater and coughs, only to reflexively suck in more. His lungs seize. The water is like ink, nearly impenetrable. He feels a school of fish swish past him, and upon turning, sees a dim silver gleam marking their top fins. He tries to swim in the direction of their light. His arms fail him, locking stiff.

Serenity blankets him, soothing his panicked mind. The tingling in his fingers and toes is oddly agreeable, so he doesn’t worry that it’s creeping up his limbs. He releases his mind from its tether, allowing it to wander a little. The liberty is short lived; it’s snatched up and pulled by a force Euron lacks the power to resist.

He’s suddenly constricted. There are hands everywhere, pushing and shoving. He strains at the pressure holding arms and legs tight, and as he struggles, a scream of outrage rings in his ears. The voice is young, northern. It sounds so close, it’s like it’s tearing from Euron’s own throat.

Words follow in the darkness. “No point struggling, boy. We got you now.”

“Aye, you were right, Lothar,” another voice says. “He’s got a pretty mouth.”

“Leave off you two,” a third admonishes. “We got orders. We can’t touch this one, or the other one neither. Pick up an oar, would you? We ain’t got all fucking night.”

“Alright, alright,” is the ill-tempered reply. “You’ll keep, bastard. I’ll have my turn. Right now, you stay still and keep quiet. We’ve got to get you ashore.”

Moist breath warms Euron’s ear. “After all, Ramsay is waiting.”

Euron’s furious scream is lost to the waves.

_***_

The next thing he knows is the sensation of soft fur cradling his back. He’s dry and definitely on land. Looking around, he can see he’s in his own tent, which is in total disarray. His maps have been ripped apart and the desk upended. The cot has been overturned and flung over to the far wall. They were looking for something. _Not what,_ he remembers grimly. _Who._ The door down to his quarters on the _Silence_ had been torn asunder as well.

A shard of mellow sun falls through a gap in the flaps and warms his feet. He throws the blankets off and sits up seedily. A tall pitcher of water stands on the ground next to the furs. He sips it, careful not to be greedy. Drowning oneself in more water after being reborn from the sea is a child’s error.

An ironborn captain ducks under the flap. “Your Grace! Thank the Drowned Lord you’ve awoken. We found you washed up on the beach a league from here. Your brother Aeron revived -”

Euron cuts him off impatiently. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Have you located the bastard? My nephew?”

“No, your Grace. I dispatched men to search the forest as soon as they were reported missing from the _Silence_. There’s been no sign of them.”

Euron quells the urge to vomit. “What are our losses?”

“Minimal, your Grace. We routed them on the shore. The _Silence_ is intact, though the Bolton scum overturned your chambers and took everything in your chests and cabinet.”

The news is unsettling for reasons Euron can’t define. _There was something important in the cabinet. What was it?_ The question floats in his mind unanswered. _Not Jon Snow’s sword._ That should still be in Mormont’s possession. It would be as safe a place as any for the time being.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Mormont appears. She enters unannounced and shoulders past the captain to stand at the foot of Euron’s makeshift bed.

“Crow’s Eye,” she greets him. “You’re awake at last. Congratulations on surviving your little skirmish.”

Euron sits upright to give her a sour stare. “No thanks to you and yours. The Drowned God saved me.” 

“I’d call it luck rather than divine intervention, Greyjoy,” she snorts, as the other lords file in around her. “And you must have had plenty of it. The Vale arriving was as much of a surprise to us as it was to you.”

“Aye, they had what, five or six hundred men?” Umber agrees. “Bolton was toying with you. Sending you a message, most like.” 

“No, that was not his intention,” Euron says bleakly. _So it’s true. None of them were part of it._ They’re speaking too lightly to know all that transpired.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s over,” Manderly says. “And we’re here to continue our discussions. We met last night. Maege has confirmed the sword was Jeor’s. In light of that and…well, some other accounts, we have decided the lad is indeed Eddard Stark’s blood. If you were to legitimise him –”

“Save your breath, Manderly. He’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean?” 

“Bolton took him, and my nephew. That was the purpose of last night’s raid. They attacked my ship and captured them.” 

“Well, where is he, man?” 

“I know not. He could be dead. I believe Bolton will keep Theon alive. Jon…” _No. It is unthinkable._ He swallows the idea bitterly.

The northerners look genuinely appalled. _Curious_. Euron hadn’t thought they would have come to place such value on the lad so soon. 

“Your Grace!” 

One of Nute’s men bursts through the crowd. He’s carrying a small wooden box and an envelope sealed with pink wax. 

“We found this on the other side of the forest, your Grace,” he says. “It’s his mark. Bolton’s. I think it’s addressed to you.”

Euron’s blood chills. Wordlessly he waves the man over and takes the objects from his hands. **False King** is scrawled large across the envelope. The letter inside makes his black eye burn.

 

_I have your bastard, false king. I have my Reek. Now I would have my bride. Bring her to Winterfell and I will give Jon Snow back to you._

_You kept Reek from me. I’m making him pay for that, and I’ll make you pay too. I finished what you started, Greyjoy. I’ve taken your bastard twice already. He’s here, bound to my saddle, naked and bleeding. Come and see._

_You should hurry, Greyjoy. He’s fighting me, and you know how tiresome I find that. Perhaps I’ll string him up above the gates of Winterfell to greet you. Don’t worry, he won’t freeze. I’ll make him a cloak of skins from those traitorous serving bitches who are spilling my secrets._

_I hope you like my gift. There will be more, unless you return Sansa Stark to me._

_Ramsay Bolton, trueborn Lord of Winterfell._

Euron opens the box. 

It’s packed tight with bloodstained snow. On top lies a strip of skin, quite fresh. It’s bled white, cut clean, and half an arm in length. _Yes, that is exactly where it’s from_. The inner arm, more precisely; it is hairless and delicate. It’s not Theon’s. His arms are already heavily scarred from Ramsay’s past attentions. This piece bears no such marks.

The second item Euron pulls from the box removes any uncertainty. It’s another piece of skin, smaller, about the size of a man’s finger. The long black curls it bears are matted with blood. 

White hot fury fills him, leaping from head to heart. He throws the box at the wall with a guttural growl, smashing it into splinters. 

“Greyjoy, what –?” Umber starts.

Euron thrusts the letter at him. A pall descends upon the room as Whoresbane reads the words aloud.

Mormont grips the pommel of her sword. “Call the banners.”

“Over a bastard?” Lord Ryswell asks uncertainly. “Surely there are other ways.”

“No, father,” Barbrey Dustin murmurs. “This has gone too far. Bolton’s allied with the Freys and the Vale.” Her ever-present frown deepens. “I will never forget the wrongs done to me, but we cannot allow our grievances bring the north to ruin.”

“Wise words, Lady Dustin. We must put and end to our bickering. Now is the time for action.”

The throng parts to allow Harrion Karstark to push to the front.

“You, Karstark?” Glover scoffs. “I half expected you to be at the head of Bolton’s forces last night. You want us to believe you’ll back us against him?”

“Things change, Lord Glover,” Harrion Karstark says quietly. “People change. My uncle threw in with Bolton. That was not my choice. I see the madness of it now. Don’t mistake me, Crow’s Eye - I have no love for you. Your wickedness will be your undoing, and I will gladly watch when you gasp your last. Nevertheless, I will fight for Jon Snow, since that is the will of the north. His blood may deliver us yet.” 

Euron stands. “You will bend the knee to me, then?” The hope is a faint one.

“Nay, Greyjoy,” Manderly booms. “But we will fight alongside you. For now, for the sake of the north. The Old Gods forgive me! I delayed too long, and war waits for no man. I hope it is not too late. Muster your Ironborn, Crow’s Eye, and do your best to keep up. You may live to rue the day you summoned us here.”

His smile is wide and menacing.

“The north is rising.”

  


	9. Chapter 9

“Jon Snow? The bastard of Winterfell?”

The innkeeper sets a mug of ale down on the table and frowns. His eyes dart between Euron, Aeron and Nute, doubtless trying to decide which of them would be least likely to gut him for a poorly received answer. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, m’lor—I, I mean, Your Grace. But he was killed at the Wall.”

“He lives, innkeep,” Euron corrects him. “Never mind how. All you need know is this: he has been captured by Ramsay Bolton, and I want him back. I have the support of much of the north in this endeavour. Have you seen him?”

“As you say, then, King Greyjoy,” the man says. “I won’t ask anything else, and I’ll help you if I can.”

At Euron’s gesture the man settles on the bench beside Nute. He’s a nervous man by nature, Euron surmises. He twitches at the faintest noise and his nails are bitten to the quick. He must have spent years living in fear. _Good._ A frightened man was an honest one in Euron’s experience. 

“Well then, tell me true. Has anyone like him passed by here?” 

“Oh I –I can’t say for sure. I never did meet the lad. Some of my merchant friends had on their trips to Winterfell and spoke well of him. I’m told he has his father’s temperament. He was a good man, our Eddard, may the old Gods keep him. What does his bastard look like?” 

“Young man, dark of hair and eye,” Aeron answers. “Your northern skin. Quite simply, he has the Stark look, though he is of slighter build than his father and uncles.”

The innkeep ponders this. “No. I haven’t seen anyone matching that description around here. Some men did stop here a few days back. Boltons and Freys. The Bolton bastard wasn’t with them. I didn’t see any prisoners either. Just two hundred or so soldiers, a maester and a horse cart.”

“He might be missing a few pieces,” Nute adds matter-of-factly. “Bolton’s started on him already. Took a bit of his fancy mane for starters. Maybe more by now.” 

“Aye.” The mere mention of it sends Euron’s mood plunging. “And I shall make Bolton suffer each injury a hundred-fold. We’ll resume the search on the morrow. Innkeep, bring some of that stew. We have been on the road for seven days and the cold has been unforgiving.”

“Bloody truth, that,” Nute gripes as the innkeep hurries to obey Euron’s command. “Five days we waited out this cursed northern weather, and this is meant to be the better of it? We’re lucky we haven’t lost more men than the twenty we have so far.” 

“Careful, Nute. Your complaints try my patience. We must press onward. Bolton has had Snow in his possession for twelve days. We must not waste a moment longer. He is the key to the north. And must I remind you, Bolton also holds my nephew? Should I die, he is the heir to the Iron Islands. Would you abandon your prince? That would leave Asha standing alone at the Kingsmoot. Would you have a woman rule?” 

“No,” Nute admits. “Although I’m not sure a cockless King is much better than a Queen.”

The innkeeper reappears to ladle the rabbit stew into their bowls. The broth is a good one – herbed and hearty. Certainly better than the dry bread and horsemeat they’d been reduced to on the road. It hadn’t been enough to sustain some of the ironborn, and in truth those men were no loss. The weak were left to perish where they lay, their horses given to worthier riders. There had been no time to stop, not once they began the journey, not after the delay they’d already suffered. Euron promised Aeron they would return to collect the bodies to lay them to rest at sea. It was another lie among many.

 _No, brother, the Drowned God must wait._ _Neither man nor god shall turn me from my purpose._

An unsmiling child places mulled wine on the table and limps away. He trips over a stool, producing an enormous clatter that reverberates across the wooden walls of the room. The boy rights it, untroubled, but his father casts Euron an anxious look.

“Peace, man. The lords of the north have recommended you to me, and I have sworn to them I will pay the gold price. I will honour my promise, for our alliance. Your boy’s clumsiness will not alter that. The only thing I will not brook is treachery. Betray our presence to our enemy, and your boy will suffer the consequences.” 

“I would never,” the man protests. “I wouldn’t, Your Grace! You’re carrying Lord Tallhart’s seal. I wouldn’t turn you into the Dreadfort bastard anyway. The ironborn have been by here before, back when they captured Torrhen’s Square. Theon Greyjoy took my daughter’s maidenhead, but left her alive at least. Bolton didn’t.” 

_For once your faint-heartedness has served me well, nephew._

“And this village?” Aeron asks. “You seem quite alone here.” 

“Emptied by the bastard. Said it was full of Stark loyalists. They tortured and butchered my boy Robb.” He casts his eyes down. “He was named for Lord Stark’s oldest son. My wife gave birth the same day as Lady Catelyn, you see, and she was from the Riverlands, just like her. My son went to war with Robb Stark when he called the banners. He escaped the Red Wedding only to find worse waiting for him here.” 

He wipes away tears with his apron. Euron sneers at the man’s bowed head. Such indulgent self-pity could be expected from a maudlin woman, not a northman. He’s about to tell the man just so when Aeron clears his throat.

“Your children are at peace,” Aeron says gently. “Please forgive my thoughtless questions. Snow is crucial to our efforts to free the north from the Boltons and we are impatient to recover him.” 

The inn keep sniffles and nods. “Ramsay left little Eric and me alive so we can keep the inn open and ready for him, should he ever travel this way. He cudgelled Eric’s knee as a reminder of my duty. Told me I should be grateful he didn’t flay him like he did my oldest. He hasn’t been back. Pity, too, since I’ve got a poison waiting for him. A crannogman gave me a draft of it. Nasty one, I’m told. Been keeping it just for Bolton.” 

“There was someone else with them,” the solemn boy interjects. He’s crept up on Euron’s blind side to stand at his father’s elbow. “He was in that long box in the cart. The one they told me not to touch because they said it held their spare weapons.” 

Ice shoots down Euron’s spine. “Tell me, boy.” The hoarse growl makes the innkeep squeak and draw the child away from Euron’s reach. 

“It’s alright, father,” the boy says, wriggling away. “He’s just worried, like you were about Robb when he went away with the Young Wolf.” His boldness is admirable; the lad is more of a man than his father. “They didn’t see me. I was fetching some water from the river when I heard them coming - the maester and the soldiers carrying the box, I mean. I climbed up the weirwood tree to watch. I’m still good at that, “ he says proudly. “My arms and my other leg are really strong.” 

His father turns grey. “Gods, Eric, why? They could have killed you if they found you.” 

“I wanted to see what was in the box. They always had men guarding it, so I knew it couldn’t just have spears and such inside.” 

“Smart lad,” Nute murmurs.

“There was a man in there,” the boy goes on. “The soldiers called him ‘the bastard.’ He had black hair like you said. They took him out of the box for a bit so the maester could wash him in the river and bandage his wounds. He was sleeping, not dead. I heard him moan.”

“That can only be Jon Snow.” Euron releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. _Injured, but alive at the very least_. “What happened next?”

“They put him back in and took the box up to the maester’s room. In the morning, they left.”

“When was this exactly?”

“Four days ago, Your Grace,” the boy replies promptly.

Euron digests the news silently. By accident or design, Jon has become separated from Bolton. He pushes his chair from the table and stands. 

“Brother, are we riding out so soon?”

“No, Aeron. I have something I must attend to. Innkeep, show me to the maester’s room. I will need a well-stoked fire, wine, bread and meat to take for supper. I shall not be down before dawn.”

The innkeep and his boy are efficient about it, and soon they’re bowing to him to take their leave. He bars the door behind them and closes the shutters. The glow of the fire is all the light he needs tonight. 

He settles in the chair by the hearth and carefully draws a small bottle from a satchel. Its curves recall a woman’s body and the liquid within is an ocean blue. Though it could be mistaken for an hourglass, a measure of time it is not. Euron has no use for such things.

_Shade of the Evening._

Anticipation sets his heart racing. Many years past, a warlock warned him of the potion’s foul flavour, proclaiming it putrid. Euron has never found it to be so. It is the taste of knowledge and magic, of damned souls and chaos. Of _wonder._  

Reverently, he removes the cork. The sinful scent of it fills his nostrils and dances on the tip of his tongue. _Oh how I’ve longed for this._ It’s been calling to him for weeks, ever since he found a small cache of it on Pyke. He’d held back, not wanting to waste the precious drops, but now – now the urge is too great to ignore.

He swallows it and soars.

Wind rushes past his face. Already the vision is more vivid than any he can recall. He hunches down, flattening himself to the mighty spine flexing beneath him _._ Distantly he registers his own excitement. _A dragon. I'm riding a dragon._  Its white scales are like shards of glass, scattering sunlight into myriad colours. Here and there a few are missing, and the skin underneath burns hot with the flames in the beast’s throat. The scales should be warm too. It is such with the two that fly next to him. Those beasts are hot to the touch, like a sword left in the sun. Not this one. Its scales are cold as the snow atop the mountains of the true north. It feels right, _perfect_ , so balanced and beautiful. Dragon fire encased in armour of ice. 

A flash of light blinds him and the vision shifts. He’s on his knees in the snow. His body aches in a way he’s never known and blood streams from his nose. 

A small man appears at his side.

“You have to get up,” Tyrion Lannister says. It’s him – it has to be. “Get up,” the dwarf repeats. “You have to push past the pain. They need you.”

Lannister’s jerkin is torn, his hands bloodied. He has a Valyrian short sword on his back. Years ago its steel was part of _Ice_. He accepts the knowledge without question. It had been reforged for an unworthy child and given an unworthy name. It is the dwarf’s now, reborn as _Tysha’s Light._ And there are other ancient weapons nearby, carving through lifeless flesh. The scent of Valyrian steel is thick in the air, swirling amid the ash and blood. Close by swings _Oathkeeper,_ another weapon born of Winter’s justice _. Heartsbane_ and _Nightfall_ are here too, and _Red Rain_ and _Lady Forlorn._ He cannot see them, but he can hear their song. Together they work in vicious harmony, laying waste to the walking dead.

One blade sings to him loudest of all: _Dark Sister_. He feels each sweep of that sword, every slice. He’s joined with the one who wields it, mentally guiding the weapon through less experienced hands. Others are bound to him as well. One rides a direwolf, the Watcher at his side, the two of them dealing death with teeth and Valyrian daggers. Another reaches out through the roots of a heart tree. He is their nexus. Two others command from north and south, their voices strong and unfaltering. The connection between them all is natural, instinctive. He gives as much of his strength to them as he can, and it’s tiring, so tiring. 

 _No, I can’t fail them now._ They must stand together at the end. In a way, they’ve never been apart.

He stands. Looking around, he sees the world has changed again. The dwarf is nowhere to be seen. The snow-topped trees that surround him are known to him, as is the frozen river that runs through them. This place was different once. It was green and light, peppered with small clearings for perfect for games and low-branched trees just right for climbing. It used to ring with childish laughter.

There is no joy to be had here now. An evil wind rises, chilling him to the bone.

And the dead...

The dead follow in its wake.

There are thousands of them, stumbling and scrabbling over roots and rocks. The noises they make are guttural emissions of pure want; their maws slaver and gape. They stop at the edge of the ice-covered river, heaving and twitching.

For a moment, he wonders if there is some magic here stopping them from crossing. Then the rider appears, urging its dead mount to the front of the host.

The Night’s King’s reins in his horse and stares. The wave of desire in his cold eyes is sickeningly familiar. It is not here to kill him. It’s here to _enslave_ him. The prospect is worse than death. 

A quiet coldness grips his heart. _I won’t let you take me alive. And if I am to die here, I will take as many of these monsters with me as I can._

Alone against the gruesome horde, he raises his sword.

_“Get out!”_

The shrill demand comes out of nowhere and everywhere all at once. The wights are gone; his sword is gone. There is only smoke and snow.

“Get out!” the youth screams again. “You don’t belong here!”

A wave of energy rips Euron out of his hiding place. He screams with two voices at the sensation; it’s like being torn in half. He pants and doubles over at the pain, vaguely aware that there is another beside him mirroring his actions.

He’s just catching his breath when a second push sends him flying back, skidding toward the edge of a cliff. He flings his arms out instinctively, looking for something to grab on to. At last he snags a shelf of obsidian jutting from the cliff edge. He dangles there by one hand, kicking his legs in empty air.

_No Bloodraven. Your crippled pupil cannot control me. This vision is mine._

He lets go.

He falls fearlessly. The air around him grows warm and the cliff top disappears from sight. A purple mist rises to cradle him, and for a time he is suspended there, content. 

He’s almost asleep when the mist begins to solidify. The indistinct security of the cloud that held him precipitates slowly into a suffocating space. There are warm stones at his feet and a metal collar encircling his neck. The soft touch of fur on his skin does little to ease the discomfort of the unforgiving hardness of wood beneath him. He tries to move and finds he’s bound at the arms, waist, knees and ankles. The pain in his right thigh is incredible, and his throat is parched.

A hinge creaks above him and he squints at the glare of the winter sun.

“Oh dear. You’re awake? What unfortunate timing.” 

It’s Qyburn’s voice. Euron struggles to reply and can only manage a hoarse huff. His head is lifted up and a flagon placed at his lips. He gulps down as much as he’s able before it’s withdrawn. 

“There, that should help. How do you feel, Jon?” 

_Jon Snow. I’m inside him._

It’s not like that fractured moment they shared in the ocean. That was just a fleeting brush, all details lost to the cold sea. Here, he’s inside him, truly, and below the terrible torment of his leg Euron can sense smaller details: the strong beat of a young heart; the tingling of bare skin in the cold air; the flutter of lashes blinking at the light. 

 _This is no vision,_ Euron realises. _This is real. This is now._  

Jon’s awareness builds like a freshly kindled fire, and Euron wanders around the secret space of his mind, freeing his senses to explore. Euron sees the red headed figures from Jon’s past, and his other siblings too: the cripple, a boy child, and a spirited, dark haired girl. This one must be Arya. Jon’s affection for her surpasses all else. The feel of his skinny little sister in his arms is something Jon relives daily. 

Jon is close to surfacing, and his mind flicks more quickly through his past life. Jon is in a damp forest, finding a white wolf pup. They know each other instantly; they are brothers in all but blood. As Jon cradles the squirming ball of fur, Theon stands nearby, sneering. He is straight-backed and whole. The fresher images of Theon, maimed and cowering as he is, are threaded with sadness. Euron is surprised to find an answering echo of it in his own heart. Next, from the top of the Wall, arrows rain down upon the advancing army below. Stannis Baratheon, the stag and a flaming heart on his chest, watches with stern approval from a distance as Jon executes an enemy. On the shores of Hardhome and in the courtyard of Castle Black, Jon swings his blade with matchless speed. A woman kissed by fire dies in Jon’s arms. There is a fat boy with an easy smile, and a blind maester with a gentle touch. There is a tall, laughing wildling with red hair and a quick temper. There is a bearded man who speaks with an honest heart. There are crows, some loyal, some treacherous. There are knives in the dark.

Those knives hurt less than the betrayal itself, Euron senses, but Jon has no desire for vengeance. The ghost of Ned Stark stands guard here, his grave visage and quiet counsel haunting every part of Jon’s being. Stark’s influence has wiped Jon clean of ambition and self-preservation, leaving him at the mercy of his own reckless decency and stubborn pride. 

 _Such is your folly, Jon Snow,_ Euron tells the emerging consciousness. _Ned Stark’s honour led you to your death once already_.

A surge of white-hot fury hits him in response.

 _There._ That’s the darkness Euron can feel lurking in the depths of Jon’s mind, coiled and waiting to strike. It’s the same savagery he saw in Jon’s eyes the first time they met: ice-wrought and burning.

_We are not so different in that, you and I. I have seen much blood on your hands; many corpses in your wake. With your Valyrian sword you are merciless, Jon Snow. A dealer of pain and death. Your noble intentions mean little to the men you have slain._

Jon’s wrath thrusts at him. The raw power of it is remarkable, and before Euron can brace himself, he’s shunted into the faraway recesses of Jon’s mind.

Fully awake, Jon shivers.

The movement is enough to make the pain in his leg spike higher. Jon bites his lip and sucks in a steadying breath. Sam always said it was best not to move after any sort of injury. He’d told Jon so back when Ygritte had shot him full of arrows. Maester Aemon had to break the tip off each and draw them carefully from Jon’s body. Grenn held his arms and Pyp and Edd his legs, but it was Sam’s voice that carried Jon through.

“You’ll be right, Jon,” Sam had soothed. “Maester Aemon’s going to make you better. It’ll only hurt for a short while. Lie still now. It’ll bleed less if you lie still. It’s the same with poisons. Well, some poisons. I mean, if a scorpion bites you, or something like that. I read about it in one of Maester Aemon’s books. It said you’re meant to lie down and stay calm, so the venom doesn’t rush to the rest of your body. Not that we have any scorpions around here I suppose. Or snakes. There are a couple of spiders around that are dangerous, though. There was one brother who survived a widowmaker bite by lying down in the snow for three days. Three days, can you imagine? I would have thought he would have died from the cold! Mind you, just last week I read that…” 

Jon can hear Sam’s earnest prattling as if he were beside him still. It’s a comfort to know that he’s not.

_Thank the Gods you got away, Sam. I can’t lose you too._

Cramp seizes his right thigh and he's helpless to stop the reflexive twitch that follows. At his broken groan, a man appears above and gives him a sympathetic smile. _Ramsay’s maester, Qyburn_. _He tended to me after Ramsay flayed me and –_

 _No._ He closes his mind to the memory, like he has so many others. 

“Oh! Your eyes were closed so I was hoping you’d drifted off again,” the man says. “You’ve been asleep for six days now. Do you remember me doing that? Putting you to sleep? I have to apologise. The men really were quite rough with you, but you did insist on fighting me. No matter, what’s done is done, and I’m afraid the pain you’re experiencing is partly my fault. You see, I’ve been giving you a sedative and some nourishing fluid of my own design into a vein in your groin. You’ve developed quite a serious infection there, thanks to my former aide’s incompetence. It’s an outcome that I’d done my utmost to avoid.” Qyburn shakes his head. “I don’t know how he managed it. The quill and pig bladder were fresh and the silver untarnished. I’d instructed him to wash you daily and take special care around that site, but I’ve since been told he was derelict in his duties. I’ve dismissed him, obviously. If you want something done right…”

Jon tries to lift his head to look, but Qyburn restrains him with a firm hand on his chest. “No, lad. Best you don’t see it. Leave it to me.” 

Qyburn twists something sharp in the crook of Jon’s elbow. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve resited the tubing to your arm and have been debriding the leg wound twice daily. I’m surprised you’re awake, let alone as alert as you seem. The sedative has strong analgesic properties, and is my own invention as well. It doesn’t have any of the unhelpful side effects of the poppy. I’ve tested it extensively, and you’ve become accustomed to it far quicker than I anticipated. Have you had milk of the poppy before?” 

“Milk of the poppy? I –” Jon thinks back on his time on the _Silence_. A strange fatigue always took over him at night, well beyond the normal drowsiness of sleep. “Yes, I think so.” 

“In that case, I will increase the dose for the remainder of the journey. I’ll do it straightaway, although I’m afraid you won’t get the benefit of it for half an hour or so. And I must work on your leg now while we have stopped to water the horses.”

“Seven hells,” Jon hisses. The pain seems to be increasing with each moment. His whole body is aching and stiff, and his upper leg is burning. And _Gods_ , there’s something crawling on it too, a hundred delicate feet that set his skin itching. 

 _Maggots_.

The shock makes his stomach lurch. He swallows a flood of saliva and quells the nausea with effort. The concentration it takes allows Greyjoy to inch forward; Jon can feel him, probing and trying to wrest control. 

“Jon?” Qyburn asks, “Is someone else in there with you?”                                                                                                                                            

Jon thrusts the vile presence back. 

“It’s Greyjoy.” He spits the name, making sure the man inside feels his contempt. 

“Yes, I wondered. One of your eyes turned blue for a moment. How fascinating. You two have a very interesting connection. You must have pulled him here, like you do with your wolf.” 

“How did you –” 

“His Grace explained it to me. I know about your gift. What’s it like?” 

Jon gropes for words. It’s different from when Ghost enters him. Ghost always takes over completely, relegating Jon to the very back of his mind. Euron feels more like a twisted twin, a loathsome shadow invading his thoughts. 

“I can feel what he’s feeling,” he tries. “And he can feel me.” 

It’s an awful awareness. Greyjoy’s mind is a pitiless swamp. He can feel the man’s amusement at his distress even now, fusing with his possessive rage, his craving. Jon closes his eyes, already knowing the pointlessness of it. In fact, it makes it worse. He can see himself through Greyjoy’s eyes: a Stark, an enemy, a weapon and a slave. The shame brings a cold sweat to his skin.

 _Is this how Craster’s women felt? And Sansa?_ Ramsay’s viciousness rivals Greyjoy’s. _If Ramsay did to Sansa what he’s done to me, or to Theon –_

He groans aloud at the horror of it. Qyburn’s hand hovers over his leg, his expression curious. “That bad, is it lad? I wonder if the nerve underneath is becoming inflamed.”

“No, it’s not that.” Jon can’t bring himself to explain it. The pain is terrible, all consuming. It’s still nothing compared to the shattering guilt. _Father would have wanted me to protect Sansa._ It’s all he’s been able to think about since Theon told him. They weren’t close as children, but to think that Ramsay was doing that to her, in their home... 

_Winterfell isn’t so far from the Wall. I could have gone to her if I’d known._

In his dreams, he does. He rides out and saves her from Ramsay, beating him to death with his bare hands. He saves them all: his father, Lady Catelyn, his brothers. Ygritte. _Arya._ His smiling, wild little sister. The dreams feel so real, he can still feel Arya in his arms, clinging tight. Whenever he wakes, it’s to a stinging emptiness. _The White Walkers are coming. I couldn’t stop that either._ There’s no hope left in this world, no light. Despair sits on his chest and drags at his limbs like an undertow. He feels like he’s _drowning_.

 _Do not fear the sea, Jon Snow. What is dead may never die._  

Jon jerks in surprise. Greyjoy’s far too close, and it’s a costly distraction. The agony crests and Jon gasps, momentarily stunned.

Euron slips forward and seizes his voice. 

“Qyburn,” Euron growls, ignoring Jon’s mental cry of outrage. “What have you done?”

It’s odd to hear his words in Jon’s husky northern burr. Qyburn seems to recognise the change regardless, for his eyes widen in amazement.

“King Euron! There you are.” 

 _Gods, his leg._ The torment is very nearly beyond bearing now that he’s at the forefront of Jon’s mind. “I thought we had an agreement. I do not take kindly to traitors.”

“I am sorry Your Grace. This is a very unexpected turn of events, and very much beyond my control. I had no part in abducting this young man, or your nephew. I was woken in the night and told we were to abandon camp. I thought it best to accompany them. By then Ramsay had already started to…well. Your bastard wasn’t in the best state when I tended to him. The inner arm and scalp are particularly sensitive areas, which is no doubt why Ramsay chose to flay him there. And that business on the horse,” Qyburn sighs, “was quite unnecessary.”

That brings an outpouring of revulsion from Jon, near overwhelming in intensity. _Whatever he has done, Bolton will pay_ , Euron promises him. He gets no thanks in return. 

“You’re upset,” Qyburn observes unnecessarily. “I expected that would be the case. Would it ease your mind, Your Grace, to know that the flayed areas are healing very nicely? They are. Better than I would have expected, in fact. I’m confident the leg will heal as well if I’m allowed to continue my work. The pain is a good sign. That’s the living tissue underneath, fighting the corruption. Luckily I brought some flies with me from King’s Landing to breed the maggots. I wouldn’t have found any here in the north, not in this weather. It feels unpleasant, I know, but maggots are very good at clearing away dead flesh.”

“And why is he confined thus?”

“Lord Bolton wanted him hidden from sympathetic northerners. The Brotherhood without Banners has also been seen in the north recently, and Beric Dondarrion has little love for lords who abuse their position. I thought it would be kinder to keep Jon sedated for the journey. He spent the first day and night without that mercy until Ramsay left us, and I can only imagine how frightful that was. I’m quite terrified of small spaces myself. Our escort knows to stop at least twice a day so I can tend to him. He is lucky in a way, Your Grace. He’s rested, clean and warm, and most importantly he’s far away from Ramsay for the time being. The same can’t be said for your nephew. This horse cart is slow. When Ramsay realised he couldn’t safely toy with Jon without the risk of being seen, he split the host so he could ride ahead. He took Theon with him. He seemed very eager to have some time alone with him.”

Qyburn peels a bandage off Jon’s leg and sniffs it. A handful of fat maggots drop from the cloth. “I did get a chance to question Jon before putting him to sleep,” he says as he begins to pluck off the remaining grubs. “It was very enlightening. I have the beginnings of a theory. However, I’m sure such things wouldn’t interest you, Your Grace.”

“Don’t presume to know my mind, Qyburn. What theory?”

“About his abilities. Jon managed to recount the last few weeks to me. Not in detail, of course. He’s too guarded for that. But he did describe his drowsiness after that night in the Shield Islands, his lack of balance, his headaches. I think when you struck him you caused a bleed inside the skull. It would fit with his symptoms. If the warging ability is somehow seated in the brain – like one’s facility for language, for example – it may have been damaged. It might account for the quiescence of his wolf. There’s probably still quite a bit of swelling inside.”

He regards Euron shrewdly. “It’s quite uncanny really. Most would die of an injury like that. I have had some success using a drill to evacuate the blood. Relieves the pressure, you see. Nevertheless, Jon seems to be healing on his own. I suspect it relates to his excellent recovery from those stab wounds. And the way he mends from the, ah, _amorous_ attention Ramsay paid him.”

“Spare me your weasel words, maester. Tell me plainly: what has Bolton done to him?” 

“Forgive my brazenness, Your Grace, but surely you can guess. I thought Ramsay told you in his letter. And I’d imagine it’s nothing you haven’t done to him yourself. I can’t decide if Jon’s healing ability is a good thing for him or not in that respect. Ramsay is not a careful man. Jon must feel the insult fresh each time.” 

“You’d best hope I don’t find out you’ve used him as well, Qyburn.” 

“Of course not.” The man blinks, bemused. “I hold no interest in it. I am a man of learning. I am not passing judgement. Such things happen everywhere. I’ve tended many a woman like this, though they don’t recover as quickly as this lad. There was a girl in Harrenhal – what was her name? Pia. That was it. A pitiful thing she was. I’ve never seen a woman so ill treated.” He sighs. “It is the way of things I suppose. Men are basic beings. Our grasp of reasoning is tenuous. We are inferior to women in that regard, I fear, far closer to animals than the gods we worship. Your Grace will forgive me, I hope, for saying I’ve often wondered if the world wouldn’t be a better place if a Queen were to rule.” 

“Who, that King’s Landing whore?” Euron scoffs. “She couldn’t even control her own filthy appetites. She can’t rule a Kingdom. Besides, my sources tell me the High Sparrow will soon do for her.”

“Perhaps,” Qyburn says lightly. “Perhaps not. You might consider allying with her, King Euron. You could have her as a strong Queen at your side, rather than a formidable enemy. She will not remain confined for much longer, I believe. There are certain factors the High Sparrow has failed to take into consideration.”

“Such as?” 

“I cannot tell you, Your Grace, for even I do not know all the details. However, I can say that there are things that have been set in motion. I would have stayed to oversee the proceedings myself, but I was attracting suspicion. I’m confident my little birds will do their duty in my stead. As will the Mountain. He follows Cersei’s every command mindlessly.”

“What are you talking about, man?”

“My apologies, King Euron. I was referring to Ser Gregor Clegane, Her Grace’s personal knight. He was a man on the brink of death, poisoned. I was able to salvage his body, but his brain was quite past saving. I had to improvise. Someday I will detail the procedure for you. I haven’t been able to repeat the experiment since. Unfortunately, Her Grace is just as disinclined as Lord Ramsay is to leave any living specimens for my work.”

“Do not betray me, Qyburn. Not to your Lannister Queen, not to anyone. I shall consider your counsel and may yet engage you to treat with Cersei on my behalf. I could take both to wife: Danaerys Targaryen for her dragons and Cersei Lannister for her gold. I will think upon it further.” 

“Of course, Your Grace,” Qyburn says. “In the meantime, I have enough to keep me busy. I’m anxious to investigate Jon Snow’s abilities further. His accelerated healing is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and it seems to be getting stronger day by day. This dreadful corruption in his leg – I would have had to perform a hindquarter amputation on another man. Thankfully that’s not the case.”

“Good. I want him back as he is, not as some crippled half-man. He must be able to fight.”

“Really?” Qyburn’s blue eyes are sharp. “Is that what you want of him? A reluctant consort, somehow defiant enough to excite you, yet willing to fight for you in battle?” He shakes his head. “No, Your Grace. He has courage and honour, and I can see why you’d want to harness his unique talents. But you can’t have it both ways. The mind is a complex instrument. He’s been stripped of his dignity and degraded in ways most men can’t imagine. Even the most brave and stubborn among us would crack under such duress. No, I’m afraid that in time, Jon Snow will become like any other dead-eyed bedslave. Like the girl from Harrenhal. Like your nephew. His healing abilities will not save him from that.”

_NO!_

The protest is nothing other than a primal roar. It tears at Euron's senses, dividing him into pieces and ripping him back into the shadows. He tumbles down, barely aware when Jon throws his head back and howls his release.

Qyburn stops his ministrations to stare at Jon intently. “Ah. Back again, are we lad? My, what an interesting experience that must have been. When you’re better, you must tell me all about it. For now, I have to get to work on your leg. Here, bite down on this.” Qyburn presses a piece of leather between Jon’s teeth, not unkindly. “This is going to hurt.”

Euron wakes in his own chair, his back is arched, Jon’s tortured scream on his tongue.

 

***

 

On the third week of the journey, the Red Woman finds them.

She appears out of a fog, radiating light amid the grey. Her hair billows around her in a halo of dark flames.

She approaches their party without fear. Aeron turns away in disgust, and Euron’s priest regards her suspiciously, a scowl upon his withered face. The rest of the ironborn, though, part for her unquestioningly. Euron himself cannot turn from her ice-blue stare, nor withdraw from her touch. 

“Yes,” she says, placing her hand on his cheek. “You are the one.”

“I know not of what you speak, my lady.”

“Yes you do, Kraken King. You had the Lord’s light in your hands. In His wisdom, R’hllor entrusted Jon Snow to you. You have abused and defiled that gift. Still, R’hllor looks upon you with favour. It is not for me to question why. R’hllor’s love can be cruel. And He loves Jon Snow. He is His chosen.” 

Euron’s red priest gasps. “My Lady, no! You are wrong. King Euron is Azor Ahai. He is the one who was promised.” 

The lady regards the priest coolly. “Did the flames show you this, priest? If so, you have read them wrong. The fire can be deceiving. You are but a minion. An acolyte. Do not be ashamed. I was the same. I mistook the Lord’s messages and lost my way. R’hllor Himself came to me in my hour of despair, and through me Jon Snow arose from death. The power that burns in me now is beyond your imagining.”

Her eyes slew back to Euron’s. “You know I do not lie. There is only one true God. And what have you done to repay His faith in you? You have lost His gift. Jon Snow has strayed from his path.”

She caresses his face. “You are fortunate, Euron Greyjoy. He has forgiven you, for He knows you seek to retrieve Jon from the darkness. I shall join you.”

Euron finds he cannot refuse.

They travel on. For Euron, time becomes a living thing. It surrounds him, suffuses his skin and crawls inside his black eye. He feels himself _age_. Sleep evades him, leaving him at the mercy of his twisted imaginings, those of sullied flesh and black curls stained red. During the day he rides hard, setting a punishing pace, and it is a punishment, truth be told, for his failure, and that of his men. The thought of it resounds in his mind with every pound of his horse’s hooves.

At night he lies with her. The Red Woman’s lust matches his, and her cunt is warm. She doesn’t slake his thirst for Snow, and Euron knows she harbours her own hunger that he cannot sate. Still, it is enough to provide solace from the wretched cold.

“You are much delayed,” the Lady Melisandre says on the fourth evening, kneeling before the brazier in Euron’s tent. Her robe slips temptingly from her shoulders. “You are five days behind Bolton by my reckoning. Why?” 

“There was a storm. It found us the morning after Ramsay delivered his message, just as we were to ride out from the Stony Shore. And it was no accident.”

It had come upon them without warning.

“Feels like it’s coming right off the bloody Frostfangs!” Manderly had shouted over the shrieking gale. “No matter. I’ve ridden through worse. It’s blowing straight from north to south, so if we keep to the coastline we’ll avoid the worst of it, and the Wolfswood will shelter us inland. There, we will await reinforcements from the remainder of the Stark banners. You, Greyjoy, must wait until it settles. You sealovers will never make it otherwise. It’ll last a few days, a week at worst. Then you should take the eastern road. It is well trodden and has a few villages and inns should you need to stop for supplies. From Torrhen’s Square, ride nor’east to the town of Cerwyn. They have no love for Bolton. I will send a retinue of men ahead to the Square and Cerwyn to help them rid themselves of any enemy soldiers and scouts. Our ravens will find you there.” 

It had taken every scrap of will for Euron to resist setting out on his own. Manderly was right. The Iron Island horses were used to mountainsides and the roll of a ship, not this kind of wicked tempest, unnatural and ominous as it was. Sleet whipped from an unseeable point in the north, flattening the grass on the dunes and throwing the horses into panicked chaos. The sky was cloudless, mocking. _The Night’s King_. The storm was his work. Euron felt the creature’s icy touch upon the nape of his neck and knew it to be true. To ride out would have been to die.

Euron rubs his hands together to rid himself of the memory. “I was sure you'd know all of this already. Did you not see the Night's King? It was the cause of it. It seeks Jon Snow as well.” 

“ _He_ , Kraken King. No, I did not see his attack on you. However I have seen his past, his birth. He is a man, or at least he was once. He can be killed as all mortals can. This much, I know. You must understand, King Euron: I see only what my Lord wishes me to see. The divine plan has not been revealed to me in full. R’hllor, in His generosity, has allowed us the false sense of free will. We believe our choices have meaning. They do not. All that has gone before and all that is to come is of His design.” 

She takes him by the hand, drawing him down to sit before the fire. “It is He who brought me to you. I have seen you many times, King Euron. On the shores of distant lands, spilling the blood of innocents. In ancient Valyria, Dragonbinder in your hands. Deep inside Jon Snow, his pain setting your soul aflame. I am not the only one who has seen you, Kraken King. Your cruelty has made you many enemies.” 

“Bloodraven. Aye.”

“Bloodraven is dead. His shade lives on to counsel his pupil. It could have been you if you had accepted Brynden Rivers’ guidance years ago. Now Brandon Stark’s gift far surpasses yours, and he only grows stronger. His brother and sisters know of you too, through him. They seek your blood.”

“They are children.”

“Sansa Stark is a child no longer,” the Lady says. “She has a woman’s body and has suffered for it. Her beauty has been her curse, much like Jon Snow's has become his.” 

“You’ve seen her? Where is she? She could be traded for Jon.” 

“Yes. I have seen her face in times of trial and triumph. Where she is now - that, I do not know. But she is not alone. None of them are. Eddard Stark’s children have made powerful friends. The wolves will return.” 

“Bolton will not find that news pleasing,” Euron muses. “Nor will his allies. He has the Freys and the Vale.”

“Walder Frey is dead, though he knows it not. Death stalks him even as we speak. And the Vale does not belong to Bolton, or the Mockingbird. Dissent stirs among them. Lord Arryn was allied with the Starks and the Knights of the Vale are now aware of the fact that you and your ironborn were not Bolton’s true target in that raid. Arryn’s loyal vassals are aghast that they helped put the bastard Ned Stark loved like a trueborn son into Ramsay’s hands.” 

“To whom does the Vale belong then, my Lady?” 

“No one. They are confused and leaderless. They do not know who shall deliver them, nor how.”

Euron grunts. “I take it that leader is not me.” 

“No. That is not your destiny. You know this already. Yours lies north, with Jon Snow.” She traces the outline of his eye socket. He never wears his patch when he beds her. She does not fear his mind’s eye. “You are not Azor Ahai, Euron Greyjoy. But you will play your part. The Wall will fall. The dragons must be unleashed.” 

“Bolton’s men took the horns, the ones that summon ice and fire. They took everything from my chamber.” He’d realised it in the days waiting out the storm, and in his fury he had burnt down his own tent. “He can't know their value. Dragonbinder he will sell. The horn of Joruman looks like a child's toy in comparison. It may have been discarded." 

"No. He has them both. That much I can see."

"Then I shall claim them again. They will help me bring this world to its knees." 

She nods and sits back on her heels. "I had not thought that was R’hllor’s plan for us. But He knows all. The Great Other must be defeated before the world can start anew."

For a while they sit in silence. Euron shuffles closer to her to share some of her warmth. She is hotter than the fire in the brazier. 

“Can you still feel him, King Greyjoy?” she asks at last. 

He doesn’t have to ask how she knows. “No. I only entered his mind the once. I’ve drunk the potion five times since, and nothing.”

“It is the same for me. My power may be growing, but the Great Other’s is stronger still. His darkness hides Jon Snow from me.” Her breath catches. “Perhaps we two?” she murmurs to herself. “Yes. That is the way.” 

She lets her robe slide fully from her shoulders and presses her mouth to Euron’s neck. 

“Drink your potion one more time, my King, and bleed for me,” she croons between kisses. “Together we may be able to find a way through.”

 

*** 

 

 _Screaming. Someone’s screaming._  

A wash of freezing water shocks Jon awake. Euron feels the harsh bite of it from the edge of Jon’s mind. Jon gasps and curls up to shield himself from another dousing. A kick to his flank soon follows, making him grunt and roll over. 

“There you are, bastard. Did you miss me?” 

 _Bolton._  

A sharp slap brings Jon’s mind to full alertness, and straightaway he feels Greyjoy hovering inside him. He gathers his will to shove him back. It’s easier this time. The man seems weaker, further away. It’s a simple thing to sweep him aside. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to sit on his left hip, folding his legs underneath. It’s the best he can do; his right leg is still too painful to rest on and he can’t stay on his back on the ground. It would give Ramsay too much satisfaction.

The man is standing within arms length, a solitary lamp flickering weakly at his feet. Jon clenches his jaw and glares upwards to find Ramsay’s face. He’s only thing Jon can see in the dim light. 

“I asked you a question, Snow. Did you miss me?”

He can’t honestly expect an answer to that. Jon holds the stare until Bolton slaps him a second time. 

“Answer your Lord, bastard.” 

“You’re not my Lord, Bolton."

Ramsay draws his hand back again, then stops, smiling. 

“You can’t admit it, can you? _Of course_ you missed me. I know Reek did. Didn’t you pet?”

A long, disembodied groan rises up from the darkness behind Ramsay. _Gods that must be Theon. He’s here too somewhere._ Jon flinches in sympathy. It must have been Theon he heard screaming. _I’ve wished death on you a thousand times, Greyjoy, but I would never have wished for this._

“Oh come on Reek,” Ramsay calls over his shoulder.  “Don’t be jealous. I know it must feel like I’ve given the bastard special treatment, but that’s not true. Jon Snow is just a means to an end. I’ll keep him mostly whole until your uncle gets here for the exchange. And then I’ll kill him. I’ve already started taking little pieces of him here and there. He doesn’t react to it the way you do, Reek. No one does. That’s what makes you unique. I pay attention to you because I _care_.” 

He brushes cold fingers across Jon’s forehead and pushes back some wet curls. The touch is gentle, a mockery of affection. Ramsay smiles at Jon’s shudder.

“Lovely. See there, Reek? He is responsive, in his own way. And a good fuck. Tight and messy.”

Jon angrily wrenches his head away from Ramsay’s hand and curses himself as laughter skitters across the darkened room. He can't tell how many men are lurking in the shadows.

Euron's anger assails him. _Fool, boy_. _Apparently you have learned nothing from your time with me. Would you hand yourself to them on a silver platter? Guard your emotions. Do not let them see._  

It’s sound advice no matter the source. Jon swallows and sets his shoulders, softening his features into a neutral mask.

Ramsay considers him. “Stubborn, aren’t you? And here I thought you were going to be dull. Your sister was dull. Always crying and sulking. I liked her best when she was on her hands and knees. She was rather good at that, just like you. Maybe even better. Soon she’ll be back here in my bed, and you’ll be able to judge for yourself. I’ll make you watch, just like Reek did.” 

Jon bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing. 

“That doesn’t upset you? Interesting. Perhaps you’re afraid you might like it. Reek likes it, don’t you? Watching, I mean.” 

All Jon can hear is a dry sob and something like rope scraping across wood. Jon wills his fists to release, unfurling his fingers one by one. Even then, hands resting at his sides in feigned calmness, he can feel them tremble with restrained rage. He can only hope Ramsay doesn’t see. 

“Come on, speak up,” Ramsay is calling into the darkness. “What about Jon? I know you enjoyed watching him. Tell me the truth. Did you like it best when I took him in the tent in front of you? Or when I fucked you in front of him?” 

There’s no reply. After a moment, Ramsay shrugs and returns his focus to Jon. His eyes blaze bright; his voice is thick with lust. 

“Never mind. I know the answer. It was when I tied him to my saddle, bent over and helpless. Yes, I think you liked seeing that the most, Reek. You liked watching when I shoved my cock in him and took the horse to a gallop. I must say I was rather fond of that too. It made the journey so much more fun. Don’t you think, Snow?” 

Jon’s throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bolton. I didn’t feel a thing.” 

The insult strikes home. Ramsay’s face contorts and he fists Jon’s hair to drag him up to a kneel.

“ _Liar._ I had to gag you, remember? Not that it helped much. The whole north probably heard you moaning like a whore.”

Bolton’s eyes are wild, and he leans in heedlessly close. Jon prepares himself, leaning on his left knee to relieve the pressure on his right.

“That bit and bridle looked so good on you, Snow,” Ramsay snarls into his ear. “I’m going to have Roderick make you one specially, so I can ride you whenever I like. Something made of leather, so it won’t damage your pretty white teeth. Because when I have my wife back, I’m going to boil you down to your bones and mount your skull up on the wall, like the Targaryens did with their dragons. All of the north will see your wolf teeth and know the Starks are finished.”

“Is that how you thinks this all ends?” Jon searches Ramsay’s ruined eye. The memory of Sansa slashing her tormentor, shared from Nymeria to Ghost, is as real as one of his own. He allows himself a small smile. “I think you’re wrong about that.”

“Something amuses you, bastard?” Ramsay snaps.

“Lots of things do. Right now? It’s your face. Sansa really hurt you badly, didn’t she? No, not only that. She _frightened_ you. You should be scared, Bolton. She has a wolf pack and they’ve got your scent. They’ll hunt you down and finish the job.” 

“I’ll have the forests emptied. My dogs will sniff those beasts out, and my wife as well.”

“No. You’ve already tried that.” He’s seen that too. He can practically taste the blood on Nymeria’s tongue. “Your dogs are dead. You will be as well, soon.”

“How do you know all of this?” Ramsay releases Jon’s hair and grasps his jaw, digging his fingernails in deep. “Sansa’s been sending you ravens, hasn’t she. You _do_ know where she is. You’ve been spreading your legs for Greyjoy for months now, bastard. It didn’t look to me as though you considered it a pleasant experience. I can free you from all that, Snow. Tell me where my wife is, and I’ll let you go.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll kill me, just like you did your own father. What was it, a knife in the back? The heart? I can’t imagine you actually challenged him to a fight. Father said Roose’s swordsmanship wasn’t his strength, but I know for a fact that you’re worse. Father told me your master-at-arms gave up on training you with the sword. Said you couldn’t handle a blade longer than a kitchen knife. I heard he told your father he should send you to the scullery with the cook’s boy so you could learn to make yourself useful.” 

“You little shit,” Ramsay hisses. He’s close enough now that Jon can reach between them, slowly, smoothly toward his target. “My father was proud of me. He _legitimised_ me. As soon as he saw what I did to Ser Duncan and that bitch cook, he knew what I was worth. I’m an expert with the bow and I – 

A hand clamps down on Jon’s shoulder. He’s mid-motion, half rising and so, so close.

Jon's heart sinks.

“I see you, boy,” a man growls at his back. It’s one of the Freys. Jon recognises the man’s foul breath on his neck. “Don’t try it.” Lothar wrests Jon’s arm back, twisting it until the knife clatters from Jon’s nerveless fingers.

Ramsay looks down disbelievingly at the empty sheath on his belt.

“Oh bastard. You’re good. I fell for it, truly I did.”

He steps back, tittering. “I’m growing to like you. No wonder Greyjoy couldn’t help himself. You’re so beautiful when you’re angry. And so. Very. Brave. I’ve heard stories about you. I wasn’t lying, you know, about us having a man in the Night’s Watch. My father was Warden of the North, after all. We had to keep an eye on every part of our land. I’ve heard about your skill with the blade. How you fought at the Wall, how many wildlings you cut down. I hear you’re one of the best swordsmen the north has ever seen. Somehow I doubt that.” He brings the lamp between them, lifting it up and down slowly, his gaze tracking with it. “You’re still only a man. If I stripped your skin, there’d just be flesh and bone underneath. You’re a bag of meat, bastard, like all the rest. You’re just prettier than most.”

“Aye, isn’t he just?” Lothar pulls Jon tighter to him and licks the nape of his neck up to his ear. Jon can’t suppress a splutter of shock. The man chuckles and grinds into Jon’s lower back. “You’re an eager thing, aren’t you boy? Just wait. I’ll have my turn with you soon enough.” 

“That you will, Lothar,” Ramsay acknowledges. “You saved my life just then. I couldn’t possibly deny you. Good service must be recognised and rewarded. In fact, Snow, all of these men have served me well. I’d let every single one of them fuck you if I thought you’d survive it. Unfortunately, I have to keep you alive until Greyjoy gets here, which is terribly limiting. It also brings me to the question: what am I going to do with you in the meantime, bastard?” 

Ramsay crouches. The shadows of the lamp exaggerate his scars; his twisted smirk is the stuff of nightmares.

“You know, you remind me of something. Was it Myranda’s youngest sister? Or the second youngest? She had – oh, wait. You don’t know who Myranda is, do you? She was a special woman. We had shared tastes. Anyway, Myranda’s sister had this doll – can you believe it? Twelve years old and still playing with dolls. Hanna had dozens of them. Her father was a kennel master, and there wasn’t a lot of gold to go around, but he indulged her. She was the favourite, you see. Myranda hated her for that.” 

Ramsay crooks a finger and tilts Jon’s chin. “There was this one doll that was special. It was made of painted glass, very fragile. Exquisite. It had white skin and black hair, and eyes that opened and closed when you tipped it. Its mouth was red and plump, like it had just been kissed.”

He leans in and presses his lips to Jon’s. It’s quick, even chaste, and over before Jon can mount an objection. Ramsay pulls away and draws his thumb lightly across Jon’s lower lip, humming appreciatively.

“I can feel you pulling away from him, princess," Lothar warns. "Don’t. I don’t care if you were some legendary fighter at the Wall. Here, you’re nothing ‘cept what Lord Bolton wants you to be. Your mouth and your twat and every other part of you belong to him now.”

“Thank you, Lothar. I'm fairly certain that will become apparent to him in time,” Ramsay says dryly. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. The doll. Hanna kept it in a box. She’d take it out and to play with it during the day, then put it back where it would be safe. We found it, of course. Myranda stomped on it. She shattered its pretty head into thousands of tiny pieces. And then I did the same to her sister.”

A small noise of disgust slips past Jon’s lips. Ramsay’s eyes flash in response. 

“Do I repulse you, bastard? How quaint. I would have thought all that time with Euron Greyjoy might have blunted your sensibilities somewhat. Such a delicate thing, aren't you? Maybe I should keep you in a box, just like that doll. I could use the one you travelled in. Yes, I think I’ll do that. I can take you out to play with you and then put you straight back in. My own pretty little toy.” 

“I’d advise against it, my Lord,” Jon hears Qyburn say from somewhere behind them. “He’s been confined for too long already. If you want him to survive until Euron Greyjoy comes, he needs to be exercised and properly fed.”

Ramsay rolls his eyes dramatically. “Gods you’re boring, Qyburn. First you interfere with me and my Reek, and now this? Ugh, fine. He can sleep in the kennels with Reek and the new pups. As for exercise…”

Three men appear from the darkness to help Lothar to push Jon roughly down onto his back. They move quickly, pinning his arms above his head, while another man brings Ramsay a pillow. He dusts it off and sends Jon an expectant look.

“Come on, Snow. You know what to do."

"No!” _Not here. Gods, not in this place._ Jon plants his feet and twists, trying to break their grip. The Frey catches his kicking legs, spreading them apart.

Ramsay kneels between Jon's straining thighs and slides his hands up and over Jon's hips. “There’s that temper Greyjoy loves so much. You’re only making this harder, you know. Well, so to speak. Light the candles lads. I want him to see where he is.” 

_I know where I am._

From the moment he woke he recognised the shape of the stones under his back and the smell of the godswood in the air. Now the unneeded light slashes across grey arches and engraved walls Jon knows as well as the grooves of his sword. The great table stands as it always has: raised, solid, and beyond Jon’s reach. He never looked down on the hall from one of those seats – the high table of Winterfell was no place for a bastard – but sometimes, as a boy, he would sneak underneath and carve out the knots of the wood with his fingers, dreaming of being a lord.

 _I was a lord, once. Lord Commander._ It seems so long ago.

Ramsay grins and starts to unlace his breeches. 

“Welcome home, bastard.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry. I've just - ugh, never mind. No excuse is good enough. I really wasn't happy with this and held back posting it for weeks. Also, after the wonderful triumph of eps 9/10 of GoT, I kind of felt guilty for subjecting brave, beautiful Jon to such torment. He deserves better.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter became much longer than I intended. The second half of it contains an homage to a couple of fic writers here on AO3, but that will have to be tidied up and posted as a separate chapter. 
> 
> Warnings for torture and gang-rape. Sorry Jon.

The cold burns.

Euron doesn’t dwell on the contradiction for long. He can’t. Not when Jon’s body is rigid, the agony climbing from his fingers and toes to capture his limbs and chest. What Euron experiences, he knows, is a mere fraction of what Jon feels.

“His power grows,” the Lady Melisandre tells him when he temporarily rouses from the vision. “He’s unknowing of his strength, yet he’s learned how to overcome the shield that kept him from us.”

Euron grunts groggily. Over the past two weeks, he’s been reduced to little more than an insensate invalid. So often is his mind drawn to Winterfell, his brother and the Red Woman have taken to riding alongside him during the day, ready to take up the reins whenever Euron slumps into one of his stupors. Inevitably, the host has to wait for him. As a result, most days they’ve been travelling at a pace scarce quicker than a stroll. The bitter irony dogs Euron’s waking hours. As close as he is to Jon in spirit, the progress towards the young man’s physical form has been cursed slow.

Euron sits up in his makeshift bed. “Where are we?”

“Outside Torrhen’s Square, your Grace,” Nute answers from the entrance of the tent. He slams his sword irritably into its sheath. “Fucking cowards won’t let us in.”

“Tell me.”

“They rejected the letter from Lord Tallheart. Said because he was a mere child of eight, he must have been coerced into writing it.” 

“The Lady Tallheart speaks for her son,” Euron argues. “She is the one who assured us safe passage.”

“I told them that. The captain of the guard said the Lady has taken leave of her senses due to her long imprisonment at our hands.”

“I see. I take it you showed him your displeasure.” 

“Aye. Waved my sword around like a fool, I did. They never came down from the guard towers. They’ve fortified their gate and their walls since our men abandoned the city. We won’t be able to force our way in.”

“No,” Euron agrees. “We can’t fight a battle here. We need numbers for the attack on Winterfell. Are we safe to camp here tonight?”

“I believe so. These cowards wouldn’t dare face us on an open field. And they’ve agreed to trade with us for food. Your brother Aeron sweet-talked them into that at least. These people seem to think a priest of any kind is trustworthy. I doubt they’d think so if they knew what’s been happening in King’s Landing. Not that that’s a problem anymore.”

“Oh? What news?”

“A raven came from Falia. The Lannister bitch set the Great Sept alight. It was wildfire, apparently.  The Tyrells, King Tommen, the small council, the High Sparrow – they’re all dead, the whole bloody lot of them! The crafty wench has taken the Iron Throne.”

_So that’s what Qyburn had been hinting at._

“Queen Cersei Lannister, first of her name,” Euron murmurs. “It seems I underestimated her. Aye, perhaps she will be worth meeting.” 

“We’re a cursed long way from King’s Landing.”

“No, Nute, you mistake me. It is a task for a different time. We must continue on to Winterfell. We are still ten days away at this pace. Jon Snow and my nephew have been in Bolton’s hands for near to a month. We have no time to waste.”

The notion fills Euron with a maddening fury, and soon he’s drifting north again, back to Jon. And while Snow seems surprised and angry each time he senses Euron’s presence, Euron half wonders if it’s a subconsciously deliberate act, pulling him during the worst of Jon’s abuse, condemning Euron to bear the torture and violations alongside him. To make him feel the depth of the suffering he’s inflicted on so many.

If so, the lad is wasting his time. It’s not remorse that consumes Euron when he joins with Jon. It’s rage.

_You belong to me, Jon Snow. Your life. Your magic. Your soul. The pain you feel now is mine to inflict, and I alone will reap the glory it brings._

A wave of hot fury is the only reply.

 

*****

 

Jon’s lost track of how long he’s been out here.

If his fragmented memories since he was dragged to the inner ward at dawn are anything to go by, Jon suspects he’s fallen unconscious at least twice. Those brief and blessed reprieves were born of exhaustion, not from escaping into Ghost. He hasn’t felt his direwolf since that night in the Reach. He can’t get away. Can’t get lost in the thrill of a hunt. He’s forever present, attuned to the weight of the men above him and the smell of sweat and leather.

Around him, men talk amiably and swig from their cups.

“He’s on his way, lads,” one of them calls. “He’s just trying to take off his armour. He practically tripped over his pike when I told him. He doesn’t want to miss his turn.”

The answering whoops and whistling bring a flush to Jon’s cheeks. He swears under his breath, knowing far too many of them find it appealing. He wishes his hearing wasn’t so acute. Underneath the louder catcalls, the quieter asides carry easily to his ears, each one more lewd and demeaning than the last.

“Bastard’s blood is running hot today,” a man observes casually. “Wish Ramsay had chosen me.”

“Aye,” his companion returns. “I’ve never laid with a man, but this lad’s prettier than any of these castle wenches. Less filthy too. Those dirty peasants haven’t washed in months. Ramsay’s manservant makes sure this one’s spotless, inside and out. They say even his hole is as clean as a virgin’s cunt.”

The heat drains from Jon’s face and he turns aside, sickened. What he sees only makes him sink deeper into despair. Lining the walls are practice dummies and shooting targets he remembers from his childhood. He quickly looks down, eyes stinging.

 _This is where I sparred with Robb_. Where Lord and Lady Stark would watch from the landing, Lord Stark with quiet pride; Lady Catelyn with motherly concern for her oldest boy. Arya, Bran and Rickon would watch and holler encouragement, while Jory and Ser Rodrik supervised from the sidelines. Even Sansa occasionally made an appearance, standing primly at Lady Stark’s side. She was a haughty child who kept her distance from Jon. He couldn’t blame her for it, as young as she was. She spent most of her time with her Septa, learning to be a lady, or with her young friends, whispering and giggling.

She’d be eighteen now, older than Jon had been when said his vows. He’s seen her, tall and beautiful, her red hair covered by a grey mantle. Her childish light was long gone, replaced by a weary sadness. As painful as that was to see, the fact that she was safe and whole was heartening.

_Or at least she was._

Only the Gods know how she fares now. Jon’s visions of her, fed to him through Ghost’s connection to Nymeria, disappeared along with Ghost’s presence. He knows less still about his other siblings. He’s seen no sign of Arya or his younger brothers. He clings to the idea it’s because they’re separated from their wolves, and not for a more sinister reason.

_At least they can’t see this. What Winterfell has become._

_What I have become._

At first they’d simply tied him in place, naked, and left him suffer the cold. It was a cruelty Ramsay seemed to take particular delight in inflicting.

“You’re a northman, bastard,” he’d explained the first time. “You’ve ventured beyond the Wall. You stuck your prick into a wildling’s icy twat and betrayed your Black Brothers. So really, you ought to be quite at home out here. I wonder where the frostbite will strike first. Your fingers? Your toes? Your cock?” 

There had been raucous laughter at that from the surrounding soldiers. “It’s tiny anyway,” a Frey guffawed. “He won’t even notice it’s gone.”

“Come now, let’s be fair,” Ramsay had scolded. “It is rather cold out. And as much as it pains me to say it, he’s better equipped than most. Not me, of course, but definitely more than you, Jammos. I dare say he’d miss it just as much as my poor Reek misses his.”

Jon hadn’t gotten frostbite that day, or any of the days after. Qyburn always seemed to know the exact moment to intervene and advise Ramsay to bring Jon inside. For that, Jon supposes he should be thankful. Jon knows the man isn’t acting out of any real concern for Jon’s welfare, other than to keep him alive for his own interest. Regardless, Jon’s always grateful for the release.

That release hasn’t come so far today.

After leaving alone him to shiver until noon, a crowd of men poured out of the guardhouse, passing around skins of wine and ale. No one reached for him. They’d merely slouched against the walls and sat upon scattered barrels and crates, expectant. Jon looked around him, waiting for the inevitable. He’d known this was coming since they’d first stripped him of his threadbare tunic and breeches and tied him facedown to the table.

Sure enough, Ramsay had eventually appeared on the landing of the guardhouse. At his gesture, a handful of select soldiers formed a line.

Jon’s long given up wondering what the men had done to earn their place at Jon’s back, and this day’s selection seems especially random. The last soldier was a staggering drunk, unable even to finish what he started. He seemed reluctant to let go of his wine, sloshing it in a delicate vase Jon recognised as one of Lady Catelyn’s prized possessions. A wedding gift from her father, Robb had told him long ago, back when such things mattered. Were she alive, she’d doubtless be disgusted to learn it had been used as a vessel for a man’s vice – a man who must have taken part in her death and that of her son’s. The sot had rubbed his limp member uselessly against Jon’s thighs, sliding in the snow and scrabbling at Jon’s waist with his free hand. In the end he lost his balance altogether, his legs skidding out from under him. The man collapsed with a shout, shattering Lady Catelyn precious vase across Jon’s back on his way down. The wine spilled over Jon’s bare skin along with the glass, washing the cuts instantly clean.

Ramsay bid the fragments be left where they lay. Even now, their jagged edges cut fresh wounds into the soles of Jon’s feet.

Today, Ramsay has a guest. The servants bow to him like a lord, although he wears no sigil that Jon can see. His face would be ordinary, if not for the uncommon sharpness of his beard. It makes him look vain and cunning both. His fine clothing – a dark green tunic embroidered with gold – speaks of wealth, as do the rings upon his fingers. His black cloak is too lightweight for the northern weather. He’s either uncaring of his own comfort, or more likely a traveller come from warmer climes. A rich merchant, Jon guesses, or perhaps a banker. Either way he seems out of place here in the north.

In spite of that, the cold doesn’t seem to bother the man. He seems rooted to the spot, his gloveless hands unmoving from their place upon the wooden rail. He has a small mouth, his upper lip almost invisible under his moustache. Right at this moment, those thin lips are pursed as if in thought. Whatever his exact purpose, he has a stake in what’s happening in Winterfell, Jon is certain of it.

Noting Jon’s interest in his guest, Ramsay says something to him with a sneer. The man doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans forward to lock eyes with Jon. The man's stare is unsettling. Jon feels as if he's being measured in some way, his reactions being recorded and tallied, perhaps to see how much more can be wrung from him.

The guest whispers something to Ramsay behind a well-manicured hand and Ramsay nods, waving the next man forward.

Jon recognises him as the captain of the east gate. He can’t remember his name. He’s vocal and coarse, but in truth he’s not the foulest of the men who’ve sought Jon’s company. Near the worst of that group was Lothar Frey. He’d used Jon more times than he cared to count. Of all of them, he was most like Ramsay in the enjoyment he took from making Jon hurt. He left two weeks back, summoned to Riverrun by his father. It’s something Jon takes little comfort in.

There are all too many men willing to take his place.

The captain runs his hands down Jon’s flanks, settling around his waist, and always, everything in Jon screams out to fight. He gives in to urge in the end, knowing it’s futile, knowing it will spur the man to thrust harder, to grip his hair tighter and growl his pleasure into Jon’s ear. Jon’s arms are stretched wide across the broad workbench and anchored to opposite legs. The rope burns when he frantically pulls on them and his hips buck painfully against the wood. 

“Seven hells, the way you move,” the man murmurs into Jon’s cheek. “I haven’t even begun, and look at you, squirming. That sweet arse of yours is begging for it. You know how to drive a man wild, bastard. Your whore mother teach you that?”

Jon hears the man shuck down his breeches and instinctively braces. Ramsay might be varied in his other methods of torture – he mustn’t want him to build up a shield of expectation – but this Jon knows all too well. It’s the same piercing, excruciating pain that fills him, the one that spasms up through his very core and up his spine. He cries out with it and drops his forehead to the table.

“Oh, Snow. Just like a maiden.” The captain groans two to three words at a time, too breathless to do otherwise. “You’re so, so tight. Like a – a virgin cunt. Just waiting. For me. Just for me.”

If Jon had the strength to, he’d mock the man. He must have seen the two who went before the drunkard. As it is, it’s all he can do to dig his toes into the frozen earth to gain some purchase. The ground is like solid stone though, and he slips, leaving him completely at the mercy of the captain’s forward motion. When the man lifts him up by the hips and drives in unexpectedly deep, Jon lifts his head and lets out a shocked yelp. A warm gush on his thighs tells him he’s bleeding.

Qyburn was right about one thing. The healing ability is a curse. Without it he would have died long ago.

_I’m half dead anyway._

The man swears lustily at the blood and finds a bruising rhythm that makes the table creak. Jon steadies his breathing and slowly, deliberately spreads his fingers out on the table. The wood is old and weather-beaten, any oil that once smoothed it long worn away. He concentrates and presses his fingers one by one into the surface, letting them slide over it as he’s driven forward and pulled back, gathering tiny splinters along the length of each finger. Soon they’re embedded with what feels like a hundred tiny knives. The stinging is the barest of diversions. It flies out of his mind entirely when the man bellows and rocks within him, climbing frantically to his peak.

Jon pants heavily into the wood as the captain pulls out. Every muscle is cramped and aching, but down there: that ongoing burn is the worst pain. That and the agony of defeat.

Above, Ramsay is already beckoning to the next man. Jon knows he shouldn’t have expected any differently, but his stomach twists anyway. He snaps his teeth down to cut off a quiet moan before Ramsay can hear.

The guest, however, does not miss it. He rests his chin on his finger, his inscrutable eyes boring into Jon’s, and there’s something behind that emotionless mask, Jon senses, something veiled and simmering.

 _He hates me_. Even though Jon’s certain they’ve never met, the man’s eyes speak of a loathing long held.

When the next soldier grabs his hips, Jon curls his damaged fingers into fists.

Ramsay’s guest sees and smiles.

 

*****

 

It’s past nightfall by the time they’re done with him.

He’s on the edge of oblivion, rousing only when he’s tossed into the kennel. It’s a welcome relief. He’s glad for the solace of the quiet cell, as cold and damp as it is. Here, he usually gets at least a few hours of sleep, though the rest is constantly broken by visits from Ramsay’s favoured men seeking to satisfy their urges.

As usual, he’s alone. Theon never did end up joining Jon in the kennels. Ramsay must have decided to keep Theon closer to him – or perhaps he didn’t want Jon to speak to him. Jon suspects Theon would prefer the dank cells better than any warmth Ramsay might provide.

There are no pups either. There were, the first night. There were eight of them, perhaps twelve months old and already heavily muscled. The guards laughed as they threw Jon in with them.

“Their bites are savage for such young beasts. Sleep with one eye open. In fact, best not sleep at all,” one said as he chained Jon’s ankle to the wall. Tiredly, Jon realised that was their intention: to deny him rest, leaving him awake and fearful.

The guards’ faces soon darkened in angry confusion as the pups merely circled Jon, heads cocked. They did that for several long moments until at last the largest one – clearly the leader – approached Jon slowly. Jon knelt for her, palms in front of him, eyes lowered. She sniffed him and stepped in closer, black eyes searching for his.

Jon felt the weight of the pup’s gaze, and lifted his eyes to meet hers. The pup barked once, tone questioning, and nudged Jon’s knee. Carefully, he reached out to pet her head and scratched lightly behind her ears.

She gave a soft yip and promptly dropped to show him her belly. The other pups followed suit.

The guards wrenched the cell door open in disgust. “Stupid bitches! Come on, bastard. We’ll find somewhere else for you.”

Mayhem ensued. The dogs launched at the men, howling and tearing, forcing them to retreat out of the cell in great haste. The pups tore out the open door and pounded after them at pace. Chained as he was, Jon hadn’t been able to follow, but he heard the panicked shouts in the courtyard. The quiet night was shattered by wild barking and the ring of steel.

He hasn’t seen the pups since.

Qyburn arrives shortly after Jon is deposited on the floor. He examines him briskly, dabbing a pungent cream to some of his wounds and bandages to others. Once he’s done, he produces a warm blanket, tucking it around Jon firmly from feet to neck.

“You were out there for much longer than I would have liked today. The cold never does seem to affect you as much as it would any other, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that.”

Qyburn sits back on his heels and sighs. “It will be worse for you tomorrow, after what happened to that last soldier. You shouldn’t have done it, Jon. You must you know that.”

“You’re wrong,” Jon counters quietly. “I should have done it sooner. Do you know what he was, that man?”

“Yes. He was one of Lord Ramsay’s battle commanders. A much trusted one, I believe.”

Anger compels Jon to argue the point, even if it means nothing to the man. “He molested his own daughter. Whenever he— whenever it was his turn, he’d speak of it. Of how his wife stole the girl away from him when she discovered his crime.”

Qyburn’s face stays infuriatingly impassive.

“He told me I reminded him of her,” Jon insists. “He called me by _her_ name, and wanted _me_ to call him father.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Did you call him father?”

“No,” Jon snarls. “Never.”

“And I suppose you earned a beating for it. You truly have no idea how to keep yourself safe, lad. You’ve killed one of Lord Bolton’s best soldiers.” 

“I don’t regret it.”

Euron’s voice comes to Jon then, as he knew it would.

_No, you enjoyed it, boy. And the fool merited it. He thought you weakened enough to untie you and turn you to face him. He deserved to have his skull split by his own axe._

_Aye, he did. But I didn't do it for your amusement or approval,_ Jon spits back. He dislodges the presence with a toss of his head. Qyburn raises a quizzical eyebrow at him, but refrains from asking. Instead, he produces the small book he always seems to carry, and scratches a few notes down with his quill.

“Ramsay will not be kind in his punishment, I fear,” Qyburn says, without looking up. “You’re very lucky your body heals so well. I wonder, do you remember when you first noticed this happening? Was it immediately after your reanimation?”

Jon’s too drained to resist the man’s interrogation. In fact, he’s surprised it hasn’t come up already. “I’m not sure. I was – I suppose I was too confused. I didn’t know what had happened.”

“Understandable. Was there anyone with you when you awoke?”

“No. They’d been there. Lady Melisandre. Lord Davos. Edd. Tormund.” He’d felt them as he began to surface. In his mind he saw the Red Woman’s face crumpling in defeat. “They thought she’d failed, so they left.”

He was suspended in the airless space between death and life for what felt like a sickeningly long time. His body was frozen, his heart still. He’d screamed inside, unable to move, panic clawing at his chest. At last he broke through and as he recalls it now, the terror, the bewilderment, that first burning gasp: it all rushes back to him. He was naked and alone except for Ghost, and when he’d looked down, he’d seen the wounds scattered over his chest. The understanding hit him like a body blow; his sobbing breaths echoed in the cold chamber. They’d stabbed him. _Murdered_ him. 

He was dead and had somehow been reborn.

Davos was the one who found him and wrapped him in his cloak. They didn’t have the chance to speak. A commotion erupted outside and the door burst open to reveal Alliser Thorne, sword at Edd’s throat. Their shock at seeing Jon alive mirrored his own.

Qyburn’s question tells Jon he must have been speaking aloud. “I see. What happened next?” 

“The men who betrayed me escaped the cells. Later I learned it was because one of their number pretended to be Edd’s ally. He waited until nightfall to free them. They closed the gate and trapped Edd and Tormund and a handful of Wildlings in the courtyard and surrounded them with archers. I gave myself up in exchange for their safety.” 

“And then?”

“There was a disagreement. Ser Alliser wanted to hang me. The others argued it was only a matter of time before the remainder of the Wildlings broke down the gate. They bound me and smuggled me out through the tunnel to the other side of the Wall. From there, they took me to Eastwatch by the Sea. They sent a raven ahead to arrange transport to Astapor.”

Just as he had on the _Silence_ , he’d spent much of that journey at the oar. No one had hurt him otherwise. The captain of the boat had shrugged disinterestedly when he was brought aboard, struggling against his bonds.

“He looks strong. He can pay for his passage by rowing. My men know not to touch him. And no matter your quarrel with the lad I’d suggest you don’t either. A healthy slave will fetch you a higher price.”

In the end price was higher than anyone could have guessed, exacted by the ironborn from the slaver and the citizens of Astapor. It gave him no joy to learn from Greyjoy that his men found Jon’s former brothers among the dead.

Qyburn closes his book. “Thank you for being so open with me, Jon. It’s very helpful. I’d like to offer you something in return. Would you like to know what happened to your friends at the Wall?”

Jon’s heart leaps to his throat. “You - you know that?”

“Yes. Ramsay’s man at the Wall was killed shortly after you were taken, but I have ears there. The men who took you did a good job - no one saw them leave. And as far as I can tell, the few who saw you arise from the dead must have kept the fact a secret. Alliser did so for fear of whipping up religious fervour in your favour, I suspect. Lord Seaworth and your friend Edd Tollett likely sought to keep the matter from reaching Bolton’s ears. The Wildings did break down the gate. Ser Alliser is dead. And from what I have heard, your friends have been looking for you ever since.”

Jon’s thoughts whirl. “Don’t tell me where they are,” he says quickly. “I don’t want -”

“King Euron to discover it through you?" Qyburn finishes. "Don’t worry, lad. I’ve had no news on their whereabouts. I do know, however, that the Red Woman has joined the King and his ironborn in their hunt for you. It seems Lord Karstark feigned his allegiance to the northern alliance in order to be able to inform Ramsay of their every move.”

Jon searches his mind. Euron is gone. 

“He’s not with you, I take it?” Qyburn shrugs and stands. “He will learn of the betrayal in time. The question is, Jon Snow, in whose hands would you rather be? King Euron’s? Or Ramsay’s?”

“It makes no difference to me,” Jon replies softly. The half-lie sounds entirely unconvincing to Jon’s ears, and surely Qyburn can’t believe it either.

Thankfully the man doesn’t challenge it. The truth is too shameful to acknowledge. 

“As you say. Sleep well, Jon Snow. I think you will need it.”

 

*****

 

He does sleep well, for the first time in weeks. He sleeps for so long that he dreams of more than just his brothers and sisters, his mind moving past those happier times to a faraway place.

The dream is chaotic. There’s snow, of course. He’s seen little else for the better part of five years. The rippling throng of undead surging across the plain is also a fearful and recognisable sight, as is the Night’s King. He sits tall upon his horse, his arms raised, his eyes fixed upon Jon. Ice branches swirl from his fingertips and course over the heads of his army, and Jon slashes through them as they stream around him. Longclaw is a familiar weight in his hands.

It’s the winged shadow that’s new. That, and the woman.

He feels her before he sees her. She stands on the icy mountaintop, the shadow at her back. Flames surround her and yet she is unburnt, her pale skin and silver-gold hair shining in the moonlight. She addresses Jon in a language that seems at once foreign and native, pointing to the cave mouth in the mountainside below her. 

Something inside that cave shrieks, and soon he’s running, not away from it – toward it. The anguish in the voice shames him. It’s been waiting for more than a thousand years - waiting for him. Ghost lopes at his side and in the wolf he feels his own urgency, amplified.

Ahead of him, the woman lays her hand upon her winged beast tenderly. In response, it lifts its head to exhale a stream of fire. _A dragon_. It’s a dragon, he realises; of course it is. And she must be Daenarys Targaryen. The one Sam spoke of so breathlessly, and Maester Aemon’s lost kin. “Alone in the world,” the old man had mourned. _She isn’t anymore_. Behind her, blurred figures hold the banners of Greyjoy, Tyrell and Martell aloft. Jon wishes Aemon had lived to see it.

Her voice rings like a bell within him.

 _Three fires I shall light,_ she intones in the common tongue. _Three betrayals I will bear. Three mounts shall I have. Three. There are always three._

The clang of the cell door is a rude awakening.

He squints at the faint glimmer of daylight on the guards’ helms. It must be shining in from the far door. The change is unsettling. Most days when they come to collect him - either to be sent to the master mason under guard to help rebuild the Broken Tower, or to be taken to Ramsay - it’s still dark. As he’s escorted across the yard toward the Great Keep, he’s further surprised to see the vague haze of the cloud-covered sun well above the eastern horizon. It must be mid morning at least.

As has become routine, he’s first led to the servant’s quarters. After relieving himself and breaking his fast under the watchful eyes of the Bolton guards, he’s taken to the bathhouse. Bolton’s manservant disregards Jon’s grunts and flinches, completing his task with detached thoroughness. It’s a painful and humiliatingly intimate experience, which Jon knows is the point. Ramsay otherwise cares little for Jon’s cleanliness if the state of the kennels is anything to go by.

Afterwards he's handed a bundle of clothing, much warmer than he’s been afforded so far. He keeps a distrustful eye on the men waiting at the cell door as he carefully pulls on the woolen breeches, tunic and soft leather jerkin, wondering what the price will be for such a kindness. They give nothing away as they lead him outside and chain one of his wrists to a strut bearing a Bolton banner.

Jon draws the cloak about him with his other hand. Minutes pass with no indication of what is to come next. The waiting increases his uneasiness. The snowfall is light and the bone-chilling wind from yesterday seems to be dying down. Nevertheless, an aging raven flying toward the rookery battles against the mild breeze. It flaps uselessly above the ramparts and finally gives up, sailing down to sit upon a sheltered ledge.

“Jon.”

Jon jolts and hisses with the flare of pain the abrupt movement causes. He’d been so captivated by the bird he hadn’t seen Theon sidle up to him. He sends a furtive glance to the guards, standing a few paces away.

“They won’t care.” Theon says, seeing Jon’s concern. “They don’t consider me a threat.”

“Ramsay won’t want you speaking to me,” Jon warns in a low voice.

Theon drops his eyes. “ _He_ doesn’t consider me a threat anymore either.” 

 _Is he wrong?_ Jon’s about to ask. He stays his tongue at the sight of the bandages peeking out from the sleeves of Theon’s jerkin. They’re wet with blood. _A recent flaying_. He feels a pang of guilt. It was probably because of what he did. In his blind rage yesterday, he’d forgotten Theon. He’d forgotten everything.

“I’m sorry, Theon,” is all he can say.

“Don’t be,” Theon says softly. “This isn’t just about you. In fact, I think maybe he’s been a little kinder to me since you arrived.” He grimaces. “If you could call anything he does kind. His attention’s been divided between us. This was - well it was the first time in a few days, anyway. The rest of the time it’s just…”

Theon falters, his lips quivering. Jon searches his face. There’s no deceit there, only misery. He pushes his doubts aside and takes the risk. Theon doesn't seem to know of Euron's impending arrival.

“I’ve been in contact with your uncle,” Jon whispers. “It’s like – how Ghost came into my mind. He’s nearby. He’ll get you away from Ramsay.”

Theon inhales sharply. “He wants to take me as well as you?”

“Aye. He told Qyburn so. He mightn't succeed. Ramsay knows he's coming. But - I thought it might give you comfort to know.”

“I – didn’t think he would want me. I thought he’d leave me behind.” Theon wipes at sudden tears with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to go back to him.”

Jon doesn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he lifts his eyes to the raven. It’s pecking its feathers and shaking out its wings, getting ready for a second attempt at completing its journey. It screeches and takes flight, reaching the rookery safely. On the window ledge it squawks and then keels over, dead.

For its sake, Jon hopes the message was an important one.

“Jon,” Theon says behind him. “I need to tell you something. The man with Ramsay –”

“Reek!”

Jon turns around in time to see Theon leap backward at Ramsay’s greeting. His panic is understandable, though Ramsay for his part seems cheerful. His stride is jaunty, and when he reaches Theon he pulls him into a tight embrace.

“Here now. No need to be frightened, pet,” Ramsay soothes. “I’ve forgiven you for your little rebellion.” He plants an affectionate kiss on Theon’s forehead, then slants a look at Jon. “Did he tell you what happened, bastard? I wager he didn’t. Allow me to enlighten you. He tried to intervene on your behalf yesterday. He begged me to call off my men. Quite a thoughtless thing to do, since it would have denied my soldiers of their well-earned reward. It’s as if he didn’t care for their welfare at all.”

Jon suspects his mouth is hanging open. Theon averts his eyes.

“You seem surprised, bastard. You shouldn’t be. The Starks may not be the quickest of minds, but you’re half a whore. They have to have wits to survive. Surely you must know my Reek loves you a little.”

Jon can’t stop the breathy noise of shock that escapes him. “Theon," he tries, "you shouldn’t have done that for me. You shouldn’t -”

_What? Care for me? Love me? What can I possibly say?_

Ramsay steps in close. “Come on now. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. And I can see why he does.” He tilts Jon’s head back a little with his finger. “It's not just your looks. You’re goodhearted. Heroic. Every bit as much a young Ned Stark as your dead half-brother. And Reek loved him too.” He stops and corrects himself. “Well, Theon Greyjoy did anyway. He’s my Reek now, and I can’t have him loving another. So I wouldn’t get too sentimental bastard. I’ll break him of it. Besides, it’s good for you. The work Tomas tasks you to each day may be keeping your body strong, but it’s not the type of exercise you truly long for, is it?”

He draws Jon to him by the fur of his cloak. “You see, I know what you need, Snow. I was a bastard too once, obsessed with... _carnal_ pleasures. Now I have other things to occupy me. But you’re a bastard still and your lusts were denied too long in the Night’s Watch." His lip curls up into a one-sided smirk. "I’m merely helping you catch up on everything you missed. And there’s more to come.”

Jon suppresses a shiver at the threat, tightening his jaw.

Ramsay releases him and smooths the furs down around Jon’s neck. His touch lingers on the iron collar.

“But not today. Today we’re doing something different. A white raven arrived last night. Winter has come! I thought you’d be rather excited to hear that, Snow, since it’s the words of your father’s house. Poor dead Ned.” Ramsay chuckles at his own jest and signals a guard to unlock Jon’s chains. “I thought it right that we honour him by visiting the Godswood. I’m told it’s looking quite lovely. It’s regrown somewhat since the iron born savages set fire to it. And you know, I don’t hold to the old gods, but,” he says, stroking Jon’s cheek, “I do so like pretty things.”

The wrought iron gate to the godswood creaks just as it did in Jon's childhood. But when he steps into the sacred space, everything else has changed. The trees are half the number he remembers, many burned past the point of saving. The willows and elms that did survive have lost their summer leaves, spindly branches lightly layered with snow. A smattering of new trees has grown, none yet the height of a horse. And where there were once lush thickets of holly and evergreen honeysuckle, there are dense snarls of brambles and briar.

Only the weirwood tree has fully recovered. It's huge and haunting, a blood red giant amid the sea of white. Its pale roots, ducking under and over ground, stretch far beyond the shadow of its leaves, as if reaching to feed the younger trees with its essence.

All this he absorbs in the blink of an eye. He has no time to do otherwise, for what lines the path leading up to the heart tree commands all his attention.

_Crosses._

There are eight of them lining both sides of the path. Each stands above the blackened stump of a destroyed tree. And – _oh Gods_ – almost every one bears the grisly remains of men and women Ramsay has flayed.

The raven’s message was true. Winter has truly come, finally, just like Lord Stark always promised, and it has preserved the skinless corpses, capturing the horror of each unfortunate’s death in their clawed fingers and bulging, lidless eyes. Jon wills himself to look at the wretched things, trying to discern any feature that might reveal their identities. He already knew of the deaths of Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick, and he’s seen at least thirty of Lord Stark’s household staff here, reluctantly serving the new Lord of Winterfell. But there are so many unaccounted for. Jon had allowed himself to believe they’d escaped somehow, like Bran and Rickon and Hodor. He hadn’t wanted to consider this terrible possibility.

_One of these bodies could be Mikken. Or Old Nan._

He nearly vomits at the thought.

“Hurry up, bastard. You haven’t seen the best part yet. Here,” Ramsay says, sweeping his arm grandly. “Look.”

Jon can’t quell the fear that sets in when he sees Ramsay's surprise. He knows his hands are visibly trembling; knows that his breaths have quickened. It makes Ramsay smile fondly, as if Jon is doing it to please him.

He’s not. If the first six crosses were an awful sight, the seventh and eighth fill him with dread. They are empty, piles of twigs and logs at the base of each, tinder dry. Next to them, two men stand with lit torches. 

It’s not the way he would have chosen. Mance - a man of such courage and conviction he was crowned King Beyond the Wall despite his humble lineage – even he was afraid of death by fire. “A bad way to go,” he’d said, and Jon couldn’t deny it, nor could he persuade him out of his decision. Mance sealed his fate by clinging stubbornly to his honour.

_As I have, for the second time._

Jon swallows and sets his shoulders. “I don’t regret killing him. I'd do it again if I had the chance. So go on. Get it over with.” 

Ramsay blinks. “Oh no, bastard. You think this pyre is for you? That I’d burn my enemy alive? I’m a little offended. I’d never do something so obvious. Wait and see.”

At the snap of his fingers, a figure is pulled forward. It’s a boy, Jon realises with mounting dismay, no older than Bran.

Ramsay clasps the boy on the shoulder and assumes a serious air. “No, Jon Snow. Young Devan here will bear your punishment today.“ 

Jon surges toward the boy with a shout, only to be jerked back into the arms of Bolton guards.

Ramsay pats the weeping boy on the head. “Calm yourself little man. Think of it as taking part in an ancient royal tradition. All the Kings of old kept whipping boys for their sons, so the precious princelings weren’t damaged when they transgressed. Of course this isn’t a whipping and Jon is no prince, but it’s a great honour nonetheless. Chin up. Be brave for your mother.”

_His mother?_

A wail fills the Godswood and Jon sees her, kneeling in the snow half way up the path. Bolton soldiers heave her up, dragging her to Ramsay’s side, as two others begin to bind the child to the cross.

Jon’s heart stutters and stops. He loses air, his lungs hollow and unmoving. When his heart restarts, it’s a feeble pulsation. The panicked protest on his tongue comes out as a broken croak that the solders at the pyre can’t hear. They stack the logs up higher in a practised way, wasting little time in touching the torch to each corner. The flames leap to life at once, and soon the child is enveloped in smoke, screaming at the advancing heat.

The sound scours all of Jon's senses, and the dam inside him breaks.

He releases a long, rasping howl from deep within his chest. It startles the men holding him, and, feeling their grip loosen, Jon slips out of their hold. He shoves the aching rawness of his body aside and lands two quick punches to the jaw of one man, swiping the sword from his belt as he topples to the ground. 

He’s always been fleet in battle. It made up for his slender build and lack of brute strength. That same icy fury sweeps through him now, making his movements swift and sure. Pivoting, he opens the throat of the second guard, then pitches the blade at one of the torchbearers, severing his arm. He head-butts the soldier bearing down upon him and takes his weapon as well. On seeing a flash of steel to his left, he spins, meeting the arc of the axe with the longsword. Jon counters before the man can react, running him through.

By the gate, an archer stands with a notched arrow, slack jawed at the rapidly unraveling scene. Jon side-steps another soldier and ducks under the sweeping blade of the next. He can hear Ramsay yelling in the background; can sense the men on his heels. Jon reaches the archer well ahead of them and snatches the bow away.

The remaining soldiers are almost upon him.  _They won’t make it_ , Jon promises the boy silently. He’s done this once before. His aim was true then, as he knows it will be now. Through the grey smoke, his target beats red.

They tackle him too late; the arrow is loosed. The boy slumps with a whimper, the shaft protruding from his chest. His skin is untouched by the flames.

As quickly as it came, the battle rage lifts, leaving Jon empty and gasping.

_Done. It’s done._

Euron’s shade rises within him, wrathful. 

_Do you think so, Jon Snow? You’re more a fool than your father. Bolton will not be merciful._

_Whatever it is, I'll bear it._

Ramsay stalks to where Jon lies held on the ground. He unsheathes his knife, expressionless, and stabs the archer Jon overpowered. The disarmed man dies with a tranquil look on his face, no doubt grateful that he didn’t suffer a worse fate. Next, Ramsay stoops to pull Jon up by the neck.

“I’d only intended to burn one person today,” he hisses. “The other cross was meant for Euron Greyjoy. But I’ve changed my mind.” To his men, he snaps: “Bring him back to the pyre. And the boy's mother.”

All at once, Jon understands.

"No, Ramsay. NO!"

 _Yes._  Euron's voice is cold. _It is what you deserve. Do not look away, Jon Snow. Stand witness to what your rashness has wrought._

Over the next awful hour, the nightmare is reenacted. The woman is lashed to the cross; the fire is lit. Later, Jon will dream of freeing her the way he did her son: throwing off his captors and subduing another archer so as to put the woman out of her misery with an arrow to her heart.

It doesn’t happen. The woman burns.

He screams as loud as she does. He screams until he’s hoarse, begging to take her place, promising to do anything Ramsay wants, swearing on all the gods and his father’s bones that he won’t resist or disobey the man again. Ramsay never takes his eyes off him as Jon pleads. His gaze is bright with lust.

Long after Jon's voice fails, the woman falls silent. She is dead, mercifully. Her scant remaining skin is charred and peeling, exposing the blistering muscle beneath. Gruesome as the sight is, Jon’s heart slows. Her pain is over. If the fire burns hot enough, she will become ash and bone, like the corpses of the Wildlings and Brothers Jon saw burned at the Wall. It’s better that way, Jon thinks, compared to the poor souls on the other crosses. She won’t be suspended in time, dead inside but stripped bare for all to see, trapped forever in their misery.

 _Self-pity is it boy? You see yourself in them?_ Euron’s words are steeped in disapproval. _You’re deceiving yourself. You want to live. I know what is in your heart. You prefer my embrace to Bolton’s, do you not?_

Jon's pulse spikes. _You think you're a better man than Ramsay Bolton?_ he fires back. _You're both mad. Monsters. I wouldn't hesitate to slit your throat, just as I would his._

 _I know you hold no love for me,_ Euron returns _.That wasn't what I asked. This Ramsay has no idea of your worth. You're a plaything to him, nothing more. That’s what’s killing you. I was wrong about you, Jon Snow. You do have ambition. It’s what made you grasp the lord commander’s post with both hands. You want to fashion for your precious peasants and wildlings a better world. I can help you do that. So hold on for a while longer yet, boy. I come for you. Our destinies are entwined; the wolf is stuck fast in the kraken’s tentacles. You cannot break free. Not until our work is done._

 _That’s a lie,_ Jon begins. _You don’t want to save Westeros. You want to wreak havoc. You want to destroy –_

A searing pain slashes through Jon’s retort. He hadn’t noticed the grip on his wrists tighten at his back, his gloves being removed and his fingers extended. He’s too stunned to breathe at first, but when his boots are ripped off and the same scorching force is applied to the soles of his feet, he issues a guttural cry.

Ramsay appears in front of him, a large axe in his hands. The flat of the blade is glowing hot and on it Jon can see pieces of his own skin, sizzling. 

“Do you recognise it, bastard? It’s Haldon’s, the one you used to kill him. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”

He turns and strolls to the pyre, calling an order over his shoulder.

“Get him on his back.”

By the time the men have wrestled Jon down and exposed his hips and lower belly, Ramsay is walking back with the fresh iron, holding it up for Jon to see. The air around it ripples with heat. Jon doesn’t need to look too closely at the brand to know it is the shape of a Bolton cross. He throws back his head at the first touch of the blazing metal on the skin just above his left groin, a whimper caught deep in his throat. It builds to a ragged scream with the increasing pressure, and wildly, Jon thinks Ramsay means to force the brand right through him.

Suddenly the burning weight disappears.

“Done,” Ramsay says. “Now you won’t forget who owns you.”

“Beg your pardon, my Lord,” a voice drawls, “I do wish you hadn’t done that.”

Jon cracks an eye open to see the guest approaching.

“He has enough scars," the man continues. "If you’re truly considering my offer, I'd appreciate it if you refrained from marring him further.”

Ramsay hands the iron to a waiting guard. “The man this bastard killed was one of my best advisors, and his lord father was most displeased to hear of his demise. I had to give him some assurance his murderer would be punished. Of course he will be seeing to some of that himself once he arrives. He’ll get here on the morrow. And as you know, he has some very specific requests.”

Ramsay hunches down and digs his nail into the blistered imprint on Jon’s skin, scraping roughly along the raw gutters of flesh. Jon emits a strangled sob that turns Ramsay’s mouth up into a satisfied smirk.

“Besides, I think it looks quite fetching,” he observes, standing. “I’ve a mind to give him a few more. I could have one made in the shape of a mockingbird if you like, Lord Baelish.”

_Baelish._

Something slithers down Jon’s spine. Theon had told Jon of the man he called Littlefinger. He knew him as the man who brought Sansa to Ramsay. Jon knew him as a servant of the Iron Throne. A man who stood witness to his father’s execution.

 _And perhaps not just a witness._ Janos Slynt had taunted Jon with the suggestion, mocking his father for confiding his treason to a man known for his guile.

His blood chilling under Baelish’s detached scrutiny, Jon thinks it might be the one honest thing Slynt ever said.

"Isn't that interesting," Ramsay remarks, cocking his head at Jon. "I think he knows who you are, Lord Baelish. He’s gone quite pale. Well. Paler than usual. You can let him go now, boys. Let him sit up. He won’t get far. Not unless he crawls, anyway.”

As soon as his arms are free, Jon plunges his hands into the snow. The relief is as instantaneous as it is short-lived. Ramsay frowns in irritation, using his boot to dig Jon’s left hand back to the surface. 

“Where are his gloves?”

Jon resists the hands tugging at his right arm, tunneling it deeper. His fingertips brush a tree root, and he intuitively reaches for it, closing his injured palm around the rough wood.

The world drops away. His mind flies in too many directions, leaving him spinning. He gathers himself in as best he can and focuses on one glowing thread. He follows it to the centre of the spiraling whirlwind, where a light pulses weakly.

_Bran._

The joy that fills Jon’s heart swiftly gives way to concern. His brother is drained and unseeing. He too, clutches at the root of a heart tree. A young woman crouches at his side. 

Bran stirs slightly.

"Jon?" 

His eyes are closed, his voice faint. The young woman next to him looks around, confused.

"Bran, who are you talking to?" she asks.

"Jon? Is that you?"

Jon can’t answer. It’s taking all of his concentration to maintain this slim strand of contact, and the strain is already making his head pound. He stretches his mind as far as he can, and is only just able to brush the surface of Bran’s consciousness. He almost rears away at the sensation. Bran’s mind is a maelstrom of indistinct shapes and sounds, threaded with sorrow and fear. He steels himself and enters. 

_Jon._

A three-eyed raven appears, fixing an otherworldly gaze upon Jon. The bird circles him and then launches into the blackness.

_Bran?_

Jon tracks the raven with his brother's voice. It flies ahead toward a sandstone tower, a dragon perched upon its spire. As he runs after the raven, other figures shimmer into existence, most too blurred to make out. The two lions locked in combat, however, are sharp and too close. Jon veers away from them, scraping past an iron cage. Inside, a white wolf lies, panting. Blood oozes unceasingly from its heart. 

A second wolf bounds up the steps of the tower, a sword of milk-coloured steel in its jaws. Jon makes to follow only to find a young she wolf blocking the path. A trail of bodies lies behind her, some old, others fresh. She tears at the neck of a shriveled old man, and when she sits back on her haunches, teeth bared and bloody, she looks like she is smiling. She has just eaten, yet she remains hungry. 

"Jon?"

Bran’s voice is reed-thin. Jon is thrown out of his brother's mind, back to Bran's heart tree. Jon hovers over him. _He's tuning blue._ The girl is shaking Bran's shoulders and shouting.

"Jon please," Bran murmurs, "tell me where you are. I saw you – we saw you – on a ship. But you’re in shadow now. And there are so many branches, so many trees. I’m lost…" 

Jon’s heart aches for him. His younger brother, so frail in body, has been given a power that would be a huge burden for any man to bear. Wherever he is, he’s exposed and freezing, unable to protect himself from the visions assailing him, let alone the harsh touch of winter. 

_No. I won't let you die._

Something builds within him, drawing up every piece of strength he has, like the ocean pulling back a tide. He gathers it all in and then  _pushes_.

The river of energy flows from his hands into Bran's chest. As it leaves him, Jon feels like he's being hollowed out, emptied, right down to the blood in his veins.

The effect is immediate. Bran’s eyes fly open; the colour returns to his cheeks. He sits up, hale and anxious.

"Jon, what did you –?"

 _I’m sorry Bran. I can’t stay,_ Jon manages, and then lets his hand slip from the root. Bran’s despairing cry echoes in his mind as he comes back to himself, gasping.

Straightaway he’s grabbed by the arms and hauled up to a kneel. 

“What was that? What’s wrong with him?” Ramsay snaps.

“A seizure, my Lord,” is Qyburn’s calm reply. They must have summoned him. “Not uncommon in people subject to continuous stress. He’ll recover if we get him inside to rest.” 

“No,” Ramsay growls. “I’m not finished with –”

“Lord Bolton,” Baelish interrupts, “there is a reason I came to find you in the Godswood. There is an urgent matter that requires your attention. A raven came this morning. It’s about Walder Frey.”

“The late Walder Frey,” Jon hears himself say. _The she wolf._ His head feels like it’s about to split open; blood trickles from his nose.

“How did you know that?” Baelish asks with a faint note of astonishment. “The message arrived less than an hour ago.”

There’s a tiny tic in Ramsay’s jaw as he looks at Jon, his lips pressed into a thin line. He fires a series of questions at Qyburn and Baelish that Jon can’t catch. The words are garbled to his ears. 

Whatever Ramsay is asking, the answers he's receiving can't be satisfactory, because suddenly there is a tight fist in Jon’s hair, yanking his head up. Ramsay’s eyes are flat and murderous.

“Who did this?” Ramsay asks coldly.

 _It was my sister_.  _Arya Stark of Winterfell. And she's not done._

“No one,” he breathes instead. He has nothing left. His knees begin to buckle.

Ramsay releases Jon’s hair to backhand him across the mouth. More voices erupt around him. Pain flares in one of his shoulders when rough hands try to wrest him to stand.

He doesn’t care.

_Bran. Ayra. They’re alive._

He surrenders to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologise for the delay, but I'm sure you're all quite sick of it by now. Thanks for getting this chapter posted go to Puke-Silver and another wonderful tumblr friend. You've both been so lovely and supportive. Without your encouragement (and a certain amount of gentle badgering from the unnamed source!) I'm not sure I'd have ever finished it. 
> 
> (I hasten to add that they haven't actually read this yet, so are not at all responsible for any mistakes!)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are more than a year later. I'm so sorry. I'm not entirely happy with it, and may edit it in the future. But I wanted to give my dearest ladies puke_silver and Q an early Christmas gift. A strange gift, to be sure, but here it is nonetheless.
> 
> This is the first part of what became an extremely long, largely Theon pov chapter. As it approached 25,000 words I realised that I had to post it in two halves. More to come - hopefully not a year down the track!

The godswood has faded, but for Jon, the peace doesn’t last.

The comforting emptiness cracks into a thousand fragments, grey sky forming in its place. He falls for the space of a breath and then he lands, slipping onto the back of a black destrier.

Jon’s heart sinks. He knows where he is. What’s happening. A remnant of Bran’s power sings within him, gifting him with memories he shouldn’t have; of a future that hasn’t yet come to pass. A future Jon doesn’t want to live to see. 

With mounting sorrow, he nudges the horse forward through the troops. _His troops_ , he reminds himself. Soldiers of the northern houses who have rallied behind him for reasons unknown to him. What remains of them, anyway. So many died in the attack on Winterfell to free him from Ramsay. Glovers, Manderlys, Ryswells, Tallhearts. Maege Mormont. Both of her older daughters. He can see the losses reflected in the grim stares of the men around him, house banners flying in mourning rather than challenge. 

Now would be the time for the commander to inspire his men with a rousing speech. That’s what always happened in the old stories he heard as a child. Kings and lords would rally their soldiers, telling them to use their grief and turn it into anger. They would appeal to each man’s love for his home and rouse them to fight to reclaim it. They would commend their bravery. Tell them their deeds would be praised in song for years to come.

Jon has no such words in him. He cannot bring himself to lie. He’s fought battles before; killed more men than he wants to count. There is no glory in war. There is only nightmarish brutality and slaughter, and those soldiers who lay down their lives here will be forgotten by all save their own kin. Their leaders, on the other hand, would indeed be the remembered. A commander slain on the field amid his unnamed men would be lauded for his courage, and credited with some moving final words. 

 _More lies_. Jon’s never heard a man dying on the battlefield say anything of meaning. There’s no such thing as profound last words. If a man has the time, he uses it scream.

The surviving soldiers number two thousand at best. Two thousand against more than twice that number. Bolton has lost the Freys - Arya saw to that. But he does have the Vale and the Karstarks. He has other northern houses, too, from so far north no one could have expected they would take part in this battle, let alone ally with Ramsay.

The name of the leader of the remote north alliance evades him, but they’ve met before. It’s another vague piece of knowledge of the future, and yet here, it is in his past. It’s a disorientating sensation. Seeing his banner brings forth a reminder of a paralysing loss of breath. An awareness of four figures standing over him, one sympathetic to his plight, the rest smug with anticipation. There is a young woman as well, held by the nape of her neck. Her deep blue gown is made for summer and designed to entice; it sweeps low and exposes her to mid-chest, revealing smooth skin and a long white throat. The details of her face are lost to him - all except her eyes. They are wide with horror and what Jon instinctively knows to be disgust. Just as he knows her revulsion is for _him_. 

 _Please gods. Not that. Please don’t let them make me—_  

His recollection ends there. Jon makes no effort to search for anything else. Something tells him it’s best left undisturbed. 

Around him, the northerners stoically face their fate, unlike the ironborn. The Iron Islanders shuffle, discontent. Euron is ahead, glaring at Jon when he reaches the front. He argued against this. Advised them to abandon the cause, now that Jon was free. He committed his men grudgingly, only to aid in the protection of his sole interest. 

_Me. He’s here for me. And if he gets the chance, he’ll take me again._

_If the Night’s King doesn’t get me first._

Ahead, a mist gathers as if summoned, and the field disappears under a blanket of snow. Ghostly shadows emerge in a shambling host.

A numbing dread fills him. He knows who comes.

The host of undead is upon him in the blink of an eye. They drag him from his horse and strip him of everything: Longclaw; his armour; his boots; every scrap of clothing.  Unkind hands lift him up onto a slab of ice _\- altar, it’s an altar -_ and chain his arms above his head. White Walkers crowd around him, ravenous, raking his bare skin, forcing their talons into his mouth and between his legs. The pain is unbearable. But he knows a worse torment awaits.

The horde parts for their king.

The creature mounts the altar, naked, and Jon’s chest hitches with frantic, harsh pants. It seems to please the Other. Jon can feel the monster growing hard against his thigh. The Night’s King caresses Jon’s cheek with his hand; a lover’s touch. It steals Jon’s voice.

Until the creature thrusts in. Then, Jon _howls_.

It’s a torture unlike anything he’s ever known. He imagines he must be impaled on a pike of ice from root to neck, the cold almost fierce enough to stop his heart. When the Other moves within him, Jon throws his head back to cry out a second time. He doesn’t get the chance. The creature fists his hair to pull him up and presses his lips to Jon’s own.

The circle is complete. The Night’s King owns him now, filling him, devouring him. The unspeakable agony arcs through Jon, all the worse for the answering boil of his blood. Fire and ice seem to war within, his body a battleground. After an age, the ice weakens, retreating to his skin to slither though it and over it, hardening into a frozen prison.

The Night's King crests with a shriek no human could hear. He withdraws, and with a flick of his fingers, Jon’s chains drop away. The King’s blue lips twitch in a hint of a smile when the shell Jon now wears rises and accepts the creature’s hand.

Jon realises it then: The Night’s King _knows_. Knows that the transformation is incomplete; that Jon is conscious within, feeling every excruciating touch. Knows Jon is condemned to live in torment while his body is forfeit, whatever power he has now a weapon for the Others to use.

It’s exactly what the creature wanted.

Jon screams inside as his slave shell bares his throat, allowing the White Walker King to lick a freezing line from the base of Jon’s neck to his lips.

The Night’s King claims his mouth once more, and Jon falls back into darkness.

 

*****

 

Theon is already awake when the morning light filters through a crack in the heavy drapes.

_Another day. Another day in this hell._

It’s a different hell to the one he lived before, when he was Reek. The southerners spoke of there being seven of them, each unique, molded to fit the crimes of the damned they imprisoned. It occurs to Theon that he’s destined to dwell in them all, shifting from one world of torture to the next, tumbling deeper and deeper into the pit. In this one, he sleeps in a bed – Ramsay’s – rather than the kennels, forced to suffer his touch day and night. The bed may be warm, but most nights, sleep slips through his fingers like sand.

Jon hasn’t woken for three days, and in a way, Theon is jealous. Whenever he visits Jon’s bedside, Jon is sleeping serenely, and for Jon’s sake, Theon’s glad. For his own, he wishes he could crawl under the bedcovers and follow him into unconsciousness.

He rolls over to find his tormenter snoring. Ramsay’s good side is pressed to the pillow, leaving only his scarred half visible. For Theon, the shock of seeing it has dulled. Now it just fills him with regret that he hadn’t been the one to do it. There had been so many chances. He can still feel the cold steel of a razor in his hand, poised at the angle of Ramsay’s jaw, day after day. Reek fantasised about it. About slicing Ramsay’s neck open, letting the warm blood spurt up to bathe them both red. 

_Red, red. It rhymes with dead._

He never did. Reek always yielded to cowardice. Sansa had been the strong one. A woman fashioned in the shape of her mother and hardened by experience. She did what Reek couldn’t, leaving Ramsay with dueling, distinct faces: one petrifying, the other impish and disarming. Like two people in one body.

Theon might have thought that apt, once. Back in the early days of his captivity, when he believed Ramsay’s lies. The truth is much simpler.

_There is only one Ramsay. Sansa learned that as well as I did._

Ramsay stirs and stretches. Seeing Theon, a vicious glint appears in his eyes. There’s no question as to what he wants.

Ramsay takes him like a dog might, on all fours. It’s raw and fast; not Ramsay’s usual way. Most days he takes his time, drawing it out into a long, degrading nightmare, making sure shame fills every piece of Theon's being. And that shame is worst of it. It’s a constant companion, pulsing with every beat of Theon’s heart. Shame for the way he begs for mercy; for the way he pleads for  _more._ The way his lust rises with his own agony, and  _gods_ , of another’s.

_Maybe Ramsay hasn’t changed me. Maybe I was always like this._

Euron saw it too. His uncle played him like a finely tuned instrument, and too often Jon was there to see Theon’s disgrace; to heighten it. He always peaked highest when Jon was writhing in anguish alongside him.  _You are a Greyjoy, nephew. My blood_ , Euron would whisper, and Theon would swell with pride. It wouldn’t last long, vanishing when he felt the weight of Jon’s gaze upon him. It was heavy with reproach at first, and that Theon could bear. As time went on, he could feel it transform into one of sympathy and sorrow. It was more painful than any of Ramsay’s knives.

He pushes back onto Ramsay, encouraging him to go harder. To wreck him and ruin him; to fill him with pure, cleansing pain, untainted by arousal. It’s the only gift he deserves.

Ramsay fulfills the unspoken request. He is pitiless in chasing his climax, teeth savaging the bony ridge of Theon’s shoulder. When he crests, though, his fingers intertwine with Theon’s remaining ones, pressing down hard into the bed, and Theon loathes it, _oh hells_ how he does, but he curls his fingers around Ramsay’s anyway, letting the illusion of affection blanket him for a few precious moments.

It’s fleeting. Afterwards, Ramsay leaves him without a word, waving a servant through the door. Theon scrambles for his clothes, pulling his shirt into his lap.

_She saw it. I wasn’t quick enough._

The woman doesn’t mock him, though. The boundless gentleness in her eyes makes him tremble.

“There is no need to cover yourself, Theon Greyjoy,” she says. “We all bear his scars.”

Theon waits until she leaves to weep.

 

*****

 

Theon is assaulted by the smell as soon as he walks outside. Winterfell stinks of death; of decay and disease. Some of it has lingered from when the sun was warm enough to putrefy flesh; a record of Ramsay’s earliest victims. Now it blends with the newer odours of burned fat and piss and spilled bowels. He wonders if the other men and women have become accustomed to it, or if they too are sickened every time set foot out here. If so, they wouldn’t dare voice it.

The courtyard is bustling with hushed activity. Small folk stumble and scramble to perform their duties, terror dogging their footsteps and stopping their tongues. Here, women pluck fowl for the Lords’ evening meal, feathers catching in their hair like snowflakes. There, children carry loads too heavy for their small arms: bolts of wool; weapons for sharpening; crates of fruit they’ll never get to taste. Nearby, a man nudges his barrow past a woman carrying an armful of fresh linen. His load tilts dangerously, and they share a look of fright at the near miss. Who knows what the punishment would be for soiling Lord Bolton’s sheets with horse shit.

Theon doesn’t know why the man is bothering to remove it at all. Let the horse filth pile up. Let it join the inescapable stench that pervades this place, rising up from the earth to cling to the towers; a permanent reminder of the murder and mayhem committed within these melancholy walls.

The rot is deep. Born in the heart of a worthless man who sought to please his father and now set in stone.

The scent even follows Theon down in the kitchen, overpowering the more pleasant smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Like the courtyard, it is quiet. The only sounds are that of knives striking wood, the clatter of dishes and the hiss of steam. It had been one of his favourite places to visit in his boyhood. He came daily with Robb to filch pies and cakes. As he grew older, he took to blowing kisses to the busty serving wenches and winking at the elderly cook. She tolerated his cheek with an indulgent smile. He never knew her real name. They all called her Ma, and that too she allowed. She had a fondness for him, telling him he reminded her of her dead son.

She died soon after Theon assumed charge of Winterfell. Her heart gave out, he was told. A natural thing; a consequence of age.

_It didn’t give out. It broke. It broke when I took this place._

Theon can’t be sure if it’s suspicion or pity in the stares of the servants following him, and in truth he can’t stomach either one. Ducking his head, he makes his way to the large woodpile by the oven, gathers as many logs as he can carry and hastens outside to make his way to the Great Keep. He takes the stairs two at a time to the second highest floor, and finds the chamber near the end of the passageway. There, he tosses two logs into the fireplace and stacks the rest nearby. Once the fire is stoked to his satisfaction, he sits on the side of the bed, next to Jon.

It’s Sansa’s bed. The one she slept in as a child, and the one she wept in as a woman grown. Ramsay kept her here rather than his own quarters, visiting only to abuse her. He rarely let her leave the room otherwise. He didn’t need to explain to Theon – or Sansa – that it was a deliberate act. The isolation added to her suffering.

The corners of her room are covered in cobwebs. The dresser, where she would have sat in front of the looking glass to brush her hair, is hidden by a yellowing sheet, as are the box of trinkets and the pile of dolls next to it. The mirror is a rare thing in these parts. It had been a gift to Lord Eddard long ago from a merchant from Essos as thanks for being saved from certain death at the hands of bandits on the road to White Harbour. Theon can remember ten-year-old Sansa squealing with delight when her father presented it to her. She took to spending hours in front of it, arranging her hair.

Theon had never seen her look in it when she was last here. He didn’t blame her. If she had, she would have only seen the reflection of her misery.

The room is lighter than it had been during Sansa’s captivity. Qyburn insisted upon the extra candles, and that the fire never be allowed to die to embers. The rest of the furniture – a desk, a bedside table, two hearthside chairs and the canopied bed – have been uncovered and dusted. The chamber needed to be warm, Qyburn said, and free from contaminants, if Jon were to heal.

A shard of sunlight extends from the narrow window of the chamber, splicing the room into three. It passes by the bed, leaving Jon and Theon in relative shade. It doesn’t matter. There’s no warmth to be had in the light anyway. It’s been this way since Jon fell into his stupor: freezing, but with a sun far too bright for winter; a glaring ghost without heat. The air, too, is waterless and strange, with no hint of snow or rain upon it. Like it has been sucked of life. As dry as old bones.

What happened in the godswood was the cause. It had to be. Jon had spoken to the weirwood tree - Theon saw it. Everyone else had been focused on Jon, but Theon witnessed life spark in the tree’s carved face, the normally empty eyes filling with sadness. The old gods were never Theon’s to pray to, and yet the tree had spoken to him once, too. Called him by name. 

 _Theon._   _It called me Theon, not Reek._

_Reek, reek, it rhymes with weak. Meek. Freak._

_Am I not that still?_

He tentatively shakes Jon’s shoulder. When he doesn’t rouse, and Theon grows braver, moving his hand up to the sleeping man’s neck. Jon’s throat is one long, smooth line. Littlefinger had seen Jon’s iron collar removed, but its mark remains: a faint grey imprint upon white skin.

It’s not the only change. Jon’s features, so often drawn and distressed, have settled back into their familiar girlish softness. Unlike the defined lines of his lean warrior’s body, Jon’s face is made of comely curves, all full mouth and fanned, long lashes, sleep warming the gentle slope of his cheekbones. Only the scars around his eyes and the furrows in his brow tell of his age. Otherwise, his beard trimmed to a faint shadow and his eyes closed – those eyes that speak of too many horrors seen – Jon looks young. Too young to have lived the life he has; too young to have lost that same life once already, only to have been reborn into perdition.

He appears free now. Unburdened. Innocent.

Robb had been different. He was every inch the king even in repose. More handsome than any of Sansa’s storybook princes, with a strong, chiseled face and blue eyes that penetrated Theon’s very soul. Robb looked like he had been carved from marble. A hero from the songs and dead before his time. 

_There’ll be no songs about me. Traitor. Turncloak._

Absently, Theon maps the angles of his own face.As a young man – before this, before  _Ramsay_ – Theon was confident in his charm. He certainly never had trouble convincing the girls of Wintertown of it, anyway, whether coin exchanged hands or not. He favoured his mother, he was always told. She too was attractive in an unusual way, strong bone structure and arresting green eyes capturing the heart of many a lord. She was clever as well, more astute than any man, as Asha was forever pointing out. “She has a quicker wit than any of those fools on father’s council,” his sister would tell him, bristling. “Even Uncle Harlaw says so. They ignore her because she’s a woman.”

Any brilliance that once shone inside Lady Alannys is long gone. When her mind had splintered, Lord Balon left her to her lunacy, with only her fantasies and a few devoted handmaids for company.

_And now she’s—_

Theon snatches his hand back when Jon turns his head to one side. Without waking, Jon brings one arm up so his hand rests on the pillow beside him. Here, even his fingers are relaxed, curling toward his bandaged palm. His lips part slightly, red and soft thanks to the balm Qyburn has been rubbing on them to keep them from cracking.

_He’s beautiful. Gods help him._

It made Jon an easy target for mockery in his youth. On days that taunts about his bastard status failed to get a response, a gibe about his looks would be rewarded with a scowl at the very least. Theon always suspected Jon took it as a slight on his manhood, rather than a comment on his appearance. In fact, it was both. Sometimes it earned Theon a bruise or several. It also seemed to make Jon train harder, enhancing his natural gift with the blade. He rapidly surpassed Robb and Theon with it, probably trying to prove his worth, and Theon would tease him for that too. Rodrik and Jory Cassel were humourless men, sour faced and stern, and they reprimanded Theon if they overheard him baiting Jon. It was best to avoid saying such things around Lord Eddard, Robb and Arya as well, but if Lord Stark’s wife ever saw or heard any of it, she would linger, listening, her face a mask. She issued no admonishments.

_They’re all gone. Jory and Lord Stark died in King’s Landing. I took Rodrik’s head here in Winterfell. Spat on the memory of the Starks’ kindness. I turned against Robb. Let Sansa be—_

“He’s stirring more often. I think he’ll wake soon,” Qyburn remarks. He’s materialised at Theon’s elbow, leaning over to place two fingers on Jon’s neck. “His pulse is rising too. It was very slow before. Barely one beat for every three of my own. Now it’s one to two – not quite normal for a fit young man, but an improvement. I’ll be happier when his heart beats twice for every three of mine.”

Theon’s utter confusion must be obvious, because Qyburn pats him on the shoulder. 

“Apologies. That was more detail than you needed. I forget you’re not one of my trained assistants.” 

Qyburn pulls the sheet down to expose the cross branded on Jon’s skin. It’s deep and ugly, the size of a man’s hand.

_Better to be burned than flayed._

Theon hates himself for thinking it.

“He’s healing it already, as expected,” Qyburn observes, “and I have to admit, Lord Bolton shows a remarkable knowledge of anatomy. He’s placed this precisely so the centre of the cross lies over the groove from Jon’s hip to his groin. If he’d placed it lower and more medially, he could have burned into some very important vessels going as deep as he did. Not even Jon could have survived that.”

“My uncle said the same about what Ramsay did to me.”

Qyburn gives him an absent nod and holds out his palm for a pot of ointment. Theon passes it to him wordlessly.

_He doesn’t care. This is how people see me now._

_Tyrion Lannister isn’t the half-man. I am._  

“Done. Now, help me turn him.”

Theon complies, averting his eyes as Qyburn conducts his examination. Jon groans and flinches under Theon’s hands. 

“Roll him back,” Qyburn instructs. “Jon? Jon, are you awake?”

Jon’s brows come together, but he doesn’t rouse. It won’t be a kindness to wake him. Theon joins Qyburn in trying anyway, calling his name.

“Jon please. _Please_ wake up.”  _Don’t leave me here alone._

His plea is answered. Jon drags in a breath, eyes flying open. He tries to sit up, getting as far as raising himself on his elbows before collapsing back with a grunt.

Qyburn pats Jon’s shoulder awkwardly. “Easy, young man. You’re safe for now.” 

“Where…? How long?” Jon croaks.

“The Great Keep and three days. I insisted on tending to you in a clean, warm space. Ultimately Lord Bolton granted my request. It’s in his interest to keep you alive after all.” 

“I want to sit up.”

“Of course. And you should drink. If you hadn’t woken today, I was planning on setting up a nourishing infusion again. Thankfully that’s no longer needed. Right now, I need to inform Lord Bolton of your awakening. I’m sorry, Jon,” he adds, noticing Jon’s alarm. “I must. I’ve already lied to him about the cause of this illness. I assume it was something to do with your warging – we will need to talk about it in detail later. Lord Bolton is growing suspicious of me. I can’t have the guards outside saying that they heard your voice long before I reported the matter. I promise I shall walk slowly.”

As soon as the door closes behind Qyburn, Theon fetches Jon a cup of water. Jon drains it, sinking back into the bed at the finish.

“Thank you.” He glances at the door. “Are you allowed to be in here?”

“Yes. Qyburn requested me to act as his assistant. Ramsay allows it if Qyburn is with me and the door is guarded. He won’t be pleased to see me with you, but you being awake will make him forget that.” 

“Aye,” Jon says softly. “I suppose so.”

_Fool. Why remind him of what he’s come back to?_

“They don't think you know anything about Lord Frey.” It’s the only thing he can think of to change the subject. “Littlefinger reminded Ramsay that it was a common jest to call him ‘the late’ Walder Frey. And there was no way you could have found out he’d been murdered. All the Freys were, Jon. Not the women and children. But every man who took part in the slaughter of the Starks at the Twins— they’re all dead.”

“Aye. Winter came for House Frey.”

 _So he did know._ The mysterious comment hangs in the air between them. Theon waits for an explanation that Jon doesn’t provide.

“Ramsay was furious at first,” Theon says, breaking the silence. “At the loss of an ally. Littlefinger calmed him down a bit by reminding him of the soldiers they were expecting from the north. I didn’t recognise the house names,” he admits. “Ramsay was even calmer after he questioned all the servants who've been in contact with you. No one confessed to aiding you." 

Jon blanches. He must know what Theon’s leaving out. 

_New crosses in the godswood. Soon they'll outnumber the trees._

"What about you, Theon?” Jon asks. “Did you tell him anything?"

"He didn't ask me anything. He trusts me." 

"Why? You escaped. You helped Sansa get away. Why would he trust you now?"

Theon takes a deep breath. "Because he has my mother." 

Jon seems too shocked to speak. Theon can read the question in his eyes anyway.

“It was while we were at the Stony Shore. When Ramsay saw that most of the fleet was there, he sent a score of men to infiltrate the castle. You have to understand, my mother — she’s not in her right mind. Not since my brothers died in the rebellion. She remembers things from long ago, but ask her what she had for supper and she can’t answer. Sometimes she just sits, staring out the window, not saying anything at all. And anything about my brothers…she thinks they’re alive somewhere. She makes up stories to explain why they’ve been away. Tales of them reaving the shores of Westeros and the like. She speaks of letters she gets from them, promising their return.”

In the beginning, Theon thought to challenge her. But he could see that deep within, she knew the truth. The unacknowledged grief had gnawed at her, stripping flesh from her body, leaving a skeleton covered by a shroud of skin. He found he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the illusion she’d carefully constructed around her.

The stories are all she has.

“I’m sorry, Theon,” Jon says, and it sounds genuine to Theon's ears. “Did Ramsay know she was ill?”        

“Yes. I—no,  _Reek_ — told him about it. When he was torturing me. He wanted me to talk about my past. Things that I’d hidden. Things that…hurt me.” 

 _And the things I did to hurt others_. 

“So Ramsay knew he could trick her,” Jon concludes.

"Yes. He told his men to tell her that my brothers had sent for her to come to Winterfell. She came with them willingly. Mother arrived here a day before you did.”

"Is she—?”

"He's not harmed her. I've given him no reason to. And I keep thinking that perhaps—perhaps Euron will come soon. He can help me get her out of here.” It’s a desperate hope. “Did the heart tree tell you where he is, Jon? My uncle?” 

Jon’s eyes grow large. “You know?”

“I saw you. I know you weren’t warging. And I felt something strange. Like I was here and elsewhere all at once. A different place and time.”

Jon nods. “It was Bran. He’s—Theon, he’s bearing such a great burden. I tried to give him everything I had. I hope it didn’t give him the power to see where I am. If he tries to do something, or tells Arya, she would come. No one could stop her. I couldn’t bear it if they were harmed trying to help me. But it was enough to heal him at least. Or, I hope it was.”

 _Arya? What could she possibly do?_ Theon wants to ask, but there’s another, more pressing matter to deal with. _He gave Bran his strength. That’s what that was._ He doesn’t understand how it happened, but it explained why, on stirring that night after speaking to the heart tree, Jon appeared close to death. When he pitched forward into the snow, Theon thought he _had_ died. And then there was the air. The change in it spread out from Jon’s prone form to engulf the godswood and beyond, and had persisted since.

“Jon, think what you did— I don’t think it was just Bran who fed off it. There was something else there that night. Something…” _Something evil. Something hungry._ “It’s still here. Can you feel it? The air?”

Jon goes very still. “Yes. _Oh gods._ It’s him. I had some visions just after I left Bran. There was one…he must have been there too. The Night’s King. And when he…” He stops and inhales unsteadily. Hiding something else, Theon guesses. “I made him _stronger_. Euron’s right. I’m a fool.”

Theon’s heart pounds. _Fear is for the winter._ “Is he here? Is he watching?”

“No. He can’t get past the Wall. Not yet. His magic can though. He’ll find me.”

“But why? What does he want from you?”

Jon shudders. “Everything. Whatever this power is inside me. My body. He wants every part of me.”

“Euron won’t let him take you.”

Jon’s answering laugh is humourless. “Aye. If Ramsay doesn’t kill me first. And then he’ll keep me for his own. Every bit a slave as I would be to the Night’s King. You know it’s true.”

“Yes. But it has to be better than this. My uncle—”

“Is no better than Ramsay,” Jon finishes flatly. “I’d rather be dead than be his thrall again.”

_All the lies we tell ourselves to avoid a worse truth. Let him have his._

“Forget that now, Jon. We’re running out of time. I need to tell you something. My uncle has Sansa.” 

Jon bolts upright. “What?”

“A man loyal to Ramsay sent a message this morning. Euron’s scouts found her north of Torrhen’s Square.” 

Jon swings his legs over the bed and finds his feet, leaning on a bedpost for support. “We have to get out of here. We can’t let Ramsay near her.”

“Jon, look at yourself. Can you even walk? And your feet. They’re not fully healed—”

“I’ll run if I have to.”

“Jon,” Theon tries again, pressing on Jon’s shoulder.

“Just get me some clothes.” 

“Whatever would you need those for?” 

Ramsay stands in the doorway with Littlefinger and Qyburn, a half-eaten apple in his hand. “Oh, don’t worry, pet. I saw you. You were trying to stop him. Although you did look like you were enjoying his company a little too much.”

He comes closer, his jocularity disappearing. “You’ve cut your hair. Your beard. What gave you the right to do that, bastard?’

“What? Did someone—?” Jon touches his jaw. “I only just woke up.” 

“I did it, my lord,” Qyburn interjects. “It was necessary. I needed some samples for a special kind of poultice for his injuries. It’s a new technique I’m working on. Using pieces of a man’s own body to stimulate healing. Fresh tissue would be better than hair, naturally—”

“Spare me the details. If it was necessary, then I’ll allow it. But don’t do it again without my leave, maester.” 

Qyburn inclines his head, collecting up the remainder of his instruments. “Of course, my lord. Do forgive me. I will return in the evening to change his dressings.”

Having observed Qyburn's bizarre labours earlier, Theon can’t say what the truth is, but wasn’t what the maester claimed it to be. Qyburn had been as meticulous in grooming Jon as he was with tending his wounds. It took him little time to reduce Jon’s beard to almost nothing, stopping just short of shaving it altogether. He was less ruthless with Jon’s curls, chopping half a finger length off at most. Theon had watched, fascinated, as Qyburn placed the piles of hair into separate jars of cloudy liquid before tucking them into his satchel.

Theon sincerely doubts the hair was taken for Jon's benefit. Littlefinger also appears skeptical. He eyes Qyburn as the maester retreats. 

“I wouldn't take anything that man says as truth, Lord Bolton. Turn your back and he’ll be snipping off the bastard’s fingers and toes for his collection.”

“I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that wouldn’t trouble me in the slightest. But I know it would displease you my lord. I won’t let him near Snow unsupervised again.”

Ramsay directs his attention back to Jon. “Karstark will be here in a few days,” he announces cheerfully. “The raven came this morning. And apparently the northern traitors and the ironborn are snowed in at Cerwyn. My scouts tell me the storm is the worst they’ve ever seen, and may last for the better part of a month. There’s no wind to drive it away.” 

“My sources say it will pass within a week,” Littlefinger counters. “They tell me it will come our way, though it will have lost much of its strength by then.” 

“I doubt your spies know the north as well as men who’ve lived here all their lives, my lord.”

“I suppose we shall eventually see who is right. Regardless, when the snow comes it means the storm has left Cerwyn, and we can expect Euron Greyjoy to arrive at the gates shortly afterwards. I hope you are prepared. Sooner or later, it will happen.”

 _Sooner_ , Theon prays to no one particular.  _Please let it be sooner._  

“Well, I’d certainly prefer a few more weeks with this one,” Ramsay says, sauntering to toward Jon. “And luckily for you, bastard, Haldon’s lord father has been delayed too. Which means we’ll have more time to prepare you to… _service_ him.” He frowns. “Funny, you don’t seem especially interested in any of this news, Snow. Has your little nap left you deaf and dumb?” 

“No,” Jon replies. “Just don’t see the point. You’re not going to hand me over to Euron. You’ll kill him once you have Sansa, and then you’ll kill me. You told me so yourself.” 

“I’ve been having second thoughts about that. Lord Baelish here has come up with a rather intriguing alternative.”

Jon sends Theon an anxious glance. Theon shakes his head – a minuscule movement he hopes will go unnoticed. _I don’t know what this is._ It makes it all the more disturbing.

Ramsay takes up a seat by the fire. “Don’t you want to ask me what I mean, bastard? Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious? It’s a very clever plan. And you get to live! Isn’t that a kindness? Well, I suppose once you find out how you’ll be living, you mightn’t think it so kind. Now, you were about to get up, weren’t you?” He gestures to the two guards hovering at the door, encouraging them to enter. A pale young man follows behind. “Don’t let me stop you.”

The guards act when Jon doesn’t comply, hauling him to stand before Littlefinger. He grimaces, shifting on bandaged feet.

“Stand still,” Littlefinger says curtly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Theon nearly scoffs aloud. _Did you say that to Sansa before you sold her to Ramsay?_

Nevertheless, Littlefinger is true to his word...at least, at first. Jon recoils at the at the fingers combing through his hair, but all Littlefinger does is pull a few strands straight and examine them dispassionately. He nods to the sallow youth, who dutifully produces a ledger and begins to write.

"It's long enough."

_For what?_

Theon thinks he spies the question on Jon's tongue as well. Neither of them get to voice it. A guard prizes Jon’s jaw open to allow Littlefinger to reach inside to sweep over Jon’s teeth and tongue.

Jon splutters when his jaw is released. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“Quiet,” Littlefinger murmurs, pressing a finger to Jon’s lips. He traces Jon’s mouth, seemingly committing the contour to memory, and then continues, running his thumbs across Jon’s cheekbones. It's a peculiar looking touch, impersonal rather than lecherous.

_He’s examining Jon like a horse. A steed to be sold._

A terrible notion grips him.

 _Littlefinger_ **_is_ ** _going to sell him._

Littlefinger’s hands look repellently soft, and he’s nothing if not methodical. He measures the span of Jon’s chest, waist and hips with a marked strip of cloth for his assistant to record; pinches the muscles of Jon’s shoulders and arms; peers at the scars on his chest and belly. Colour builds in Jon's cheeks when Littlefinger lightly brushes a nipple with his forefinger, easily teasing it to a firm red peak.

“See Lord Baelish?” Ramsay says triumphantly. “So responsive. The bastard blood always tells.”

“I think not," Littlefinger returns. "The word _responsive_ implies that he enjoys this. It’s plain he doesn’t. However, it’s a good sign. So much time under all those heavy leathers and armour can sometimes dull the nerves and coarsen the skin. Not this one. He’s sensitive to the lightest touch.”  

Jon’s surprised growl cuts off Ramsay’s reply, and, craning his neck, Theon sees that Jon's cock is cupped in Littlefinger’s hand. Littlefinger measures Jon there too, then peels the skin at the tip back. At that, Jon thrashes, almost managing to break free of the guards’ grip.

“I’m checking you for disease, boy, nothing more,” Littlefinger tells him. “Now bend over.”

At Jon’s venomous glare, Littlefinger signals to the guards to manhandle him into position. Theon can easily guess what Littlefinger does next to elicit the yelp that Jon emits shortly after.

“It’s not as bad as I expected,” Littlefinger comments. “All that blood the other day and yet there are only minor tears.” He rotates his arm, sighing in apparent annoyance at the way Jon jerks and grunts. “It’ll be over more quickly if you stop moving.”

After a time, he straightens, accepting a steaming towel from his aide to wipe his hands. “You’re keeping something from me, Lord Bolton. The way he reacts, the discomfort he feels — it’s almost like he’s never been touched. After being used for so long, the muscles there should have become slightly more pliant. And less prone to injury, even if he is healing remarkably well.”

Ramsay snorts. “Believe me, my lord, he’s been very well used. By me and my officers, and Euron Greyjoy as well, I gather. Snow chose to join the Night’s Watch, knowing they take a vow of celibacy. He must have been half mad to do that in the first place. No wonder he acts like an affronted septa.” 

“I see.” Littlefinger runs his eyes up and down Jon once more. “Well, it will increase his value if nothing else. Virgins are rare. A pretty whore who can play one over and over again is even rarer.”

 _Whore._  The confirmation is a body blow.

Jon freezes, expression aghast. “Whore? What are you saying?”

“Come now. You know what I mean. You’re not the innocent virgin that left Winterfell for the Wall anymore.”

“A virgin?” Ramsay chuckles. “I might have guessed.”

“So it seems. The brothel in Wintertown happens to be one of my own. I heard of the frequent visits of Lord Stark’s heir and his ward. Robb Stark was quite the lover, according to my girls. I have my suspicions that more than one of them took him to their beds outside of my employ. Lord Greyjoy, on the other hand, sought to satisfy himself.” 

Theon wishes he could crawl into himself and disappear. It’s no surprise that Ramsay seizes on it. “Truly, Reek?” he laughs. “Perhaps it’s time for a visit. Show those whores you’re a  _changed_   _man_.”

Littlefinger gives Ramsay a small nod. “Of course, Lord Bolton. You know all my establishments are at your disposal. And were you to take this one,” he says, pointing to Jon, “I’m sure they’d remember him too. I was told of the bastard of Winterfell. The brothel matron remarked upon it in her letters. The girls thought him sweet, but Maeryn had little patience for him, brooding in the corner while his brother and the Greyjoy ward enjoyed the wares. She informed me that Snow was quite incapable of completing the deed with any of the whores on offer.”

Ramsay throws back his head with a hearty laugh. “Oh, bastard! Did you have trouble performing?”

“No, my lord,” Littlefinger corrects him. “He never even got that far, though reportedly he was close once. No, I’m reliably informed he was afraid he’d get a child on one of the girls. Plainly, he’s never heard of moon tea. Children have no place in my brothels. There is the occasional client with a liking for a girl swollen with child, so I do allow a few to come to term. Once it’s born, however, it must be dealt with. If a girl defies me, I send one of my men to deal with the problem. They tend to be less gentle about it. Most whores choose the tea.”

“I know about moon tea,” Jon says quietly. “It doesn’t always work.”

“As I said, there are other ways of dealing with such…inconveniences.”

Theon’s chest constricts painfully.

_I’ve killed children too. They took so long to die. They kicked and wailed._

Their faces haunt him. Some days, he can hear the crackle of their flesh burning. Their mother’s shrieks. The sobs of the people of Winterfell at the sight of the bodies, thinking them to be those of the youngest Starks.

Rodrik Cassel’s death plagued him as well. It was a gruesome, frenzied act, far from the swift execution it might have been in other hands. Theon’s arms had ached for days afterward. He’d meant to behead him cleanly, as he’d seen Lord Stark do. But Cassel’s neck was as thick as a tree trunk, and he’d had to chop at it just as he would a great oak, the sword lodging in the unyielding bones of the old knight’s spine.

He remembers that noise: the harsh graunch of steel on bone. That, and the screams. Not from Rodrik - from Bran, who begged him to stop. Bran, the boy he’d watched grow from a babe. Robb’s little brother. A child of eleven, thrust into the lordship of Winterfell too early. A lordship Theon tore from him, and then squandered.

 _Gods help you Theon Greyjoy,_ Ser Cassel had said before he died. _Now you are truly lost._

Theon didn’t know then how true those words were.

He blinks. Time has passed. Littlefinger is interrogating Jon about his scars. They’d all moved on.

_I can’t. I can’t move on. Can’t forget. Should never._

“Those are from the mutiny, I gather,” Littlefinger observes. “Some of these newer wounds are healing I see, and might not leave permanent marks. But I need them documented now. Let’s start here. What is this one over your thigh? And spare me the trouble of forcing you to answer. We both know that I can.”

Theon wills himself not to stare. He’s seen Jon’s scars many times. Some are thin, pearly lines, hardly visible. Others are crescent shaped and pink, marking a blade twisted while deep in flesh. And yet, they do nothing to diminish him. Jon’s scars are a living document, telling of pain and courage and survival. Of a hard life, lived with compassion and honour to the bitter end.

Theon can’t help looking down at his own hands. They’re functional. That’s all that could charitably said about them. As for the rest of his body…

Jon’s voice cuts through Theon’s self-pity. He’s answering Littlefinger’s intrusive inquiries, his deep northern rumble turning words into barbs.

“Corrupted wound. Ask Qyburn,” is all he spits at the first question. “Wildling arrows,” to another. “ _Bolton_ ,” to a third. The loathing Jon pours into the name is undisguised. 

 _Careful, Jon_.

“What about this one? On your right hand.”

Here, Jon elaborates. “Got it defending Commander Mormont. When I killed the thing that attacked him.”

The hair on the back of Theon’s neck rises at the menace in Jon’s voice. Littlefinger can’t have detected it, or perhaps simply didn’t care, for he carries on in the same banal manner. 

“And this mark on your hip?” 

“Knife wound. From the man who murdered Lord Commander Mormont. I killed him.”

“And these? Were they from defending your commander as well?”

“No. It was an eagle. I killed the man who controlled him.”

Theon looks up, astonished to see Littlefinger still hasn’t picked up on the change. He has his hand on Jon’s face, angling it to the light.

“And this?” Littlefinger traces the curved line around Jon’s right eyebrow.

“White Walker.” Jon’s eyes lock on Littlefinger, as if challenging him to call him a liar. _“ _I killed him too_.”_ His whole body blazes with defiance; his back is straight and proud. “I’ve done nothing but fight since I left Winterfell,  _my lord_ ,” Jon pronounces with scorn. “I think you’ll find I’ll make a poor whore.”

Littlefinger crosses his arms. “Then the Lady Sansa will suffer for it. You and she shall keep each other honest, so to speak. We can’t have her running away again now, can we Lord Bolton?”

“No. No, we can’t,” Ramsay replies. “I’ve missed her dreadfully. I don’t want to lose her a second time. And that’s the beauty of this arrangement, bastard. You respond best to threats to others. Lord Baelish’s plan is rather elegant, don’t you think?”

Jon's mouth drops open. “No. You can’t—”

“We can,” Littlefinger returns. “And I think you misjudge your charm, Jon Snow. You threatened me just now. Do you think that boldness won’t make you more desirable? Some men want a simpering wisp, it’s true. A girl not yet flowered, or a boy so beautiful he could be mistaken for a woman. Others seek a youth with  _fire_. They want someone to bear the weight of their rage. These are men who crave the power they don’t have in their dreary lives. Your body is that of a man tried and proven in battle, and yet you are fair of face. They’ll take pleasure in binding you. Beating you. Degrading you in ways you can’t begin to imagine. Your defiance will only heighten their excitement, and yet you will be helpless to stop yourself. All that pride; all that spirit. It will make your subjugation all the more priceless.”

He pauses. “Well, not  _priceless_. Not in the least. So you see, Jon Snow, you will make a  _very_  good whore. A rare one; one which I believe will draw a certain type of clientele from miles around. I have many boys far prettier than you in my employ, but—”

“Sansa,” Jon blurts. Theon wonders if Jon’s heard a word the man has said. “ _Please._  If you care about her at all, don’t let Ramsay have her again.” 

“Lady Sansa is very dear to me, _bastard,”_ Littlefinger snaps. It’s the first crack Theon’s seen in the man’s detached veneer. “I care for her as if she were my own daughter. If the gods had been good, she might have been. Catelyn Tully deserved better than that boorish Brandon Stark. When word of his death reached the Riverlands, I thought that at last the gods had remembered me. Instead Hoster Tully saw fit to give her hand to Brandon’s younger brother Eddard. A man so bereft of personality and wit, no one who’d met him could tell me a thing about him, good or ill. Apart from the same tired story about his precious honour.” He sneers. “The Starks and their honour. So honourable they committed the realm to war for the sake of their wayward daughter.”

“Wayward? Rhaegar  _took_  her! And Aerys killed my uncle and grandfather for daring to ask for her return. He burned them  _alive_.”

“Aerys was indeed a madman,” Littlefinger agrees. “But there are other ways to take a throne. Ways that require cunning, and the willingness to do what others will not. Your father and Robert Baratheon chose violence. They threw away countless lives in that war. And then Lord Stark returned with a bastard. Where’s the honour in that?”

Jon’s eyes flash. “It was one mistake.”

“Not  _one_  mistake. He shamed his noble wife by claiming you, and then added insult to injury by keeping you at Winterfell. He brought you up alongside  _her_  children, as if you were their trueborn brother.”

Jon’s reply is measured. “I know my presence was…an offense. Lady Stark didn’t hide her mind on that. But she was kinder than most noble wives would have been. She didn’t keep me from my brothers and sisters.”

“She should have. Perhaps if you had known your place, you wouldn’t have plotted to usurp Lady Sansa, the rightful heir to the north.”

“I never laid claim to Winterfell!”

“Stannis offered it to you, though, didn’t he?” Littlefinger challenges. “And you wanted it. I have spies everywhere, bastard. You turned him down, but it was all for appearances’ sake. You brought the Wildlings through the Wall to form your own private army. You were planning on marching on Winterfell.”

"You're wrong. I allowed them through because of the threat of the Others. But if I’d known about Sansa,” Jon adds sadly, “I would have come for her.”

Ramsay rolls his eyes. “Yes, bastard, I’m sure you would have loved to play the hero. Well here’s the good news: you have another chance to. I have given Lord Baelish my word that Lady Sansa shall not be harmed…unless you forget yourself. Her fate rests in your hands. Remember that the next time you try one of your little tricks, or think of taking your own life. Think of Sansa, and your father. You remember doing that, don’t you bastard? Swearing on his bones?” 

The weariness that comes over Jon is a visible thing. His whole body seems to slump with an unseen weight.

“What would you have me do?”

“There it is. See, Lord Baelish? He can be induced to obey.”

Littlefinger studies Jon, one finger stroking his sharp beard. 

“So it would seem. Obedience can be feigned, however, and Lady Sansa is not yet here. He needs to begin training, and we have no time to waste. Besides, I usually find immediate and personal threats more effective than theoretical ones.”

“I’ve tried, Lord Baelish. Pain makes him fight harder.”

“I wasn’t talking about pain. There are other ways to ensure compliance.” 

Littlefinger murmurs something to his assistant, who darts away, returning with a large chest. He’s one of the wisps Littlefinger spoke of: fine boned and delicate. Theon thinks there’s a hint of pity in the look the boy gives Jon.

Littlefinger opens the chest and rummages through it, giving a grunt when he finds what he seeks. He presents the object for all to see.

“Do you know what this is, bastard?”

The thing in Littlefinger’s hand could be mistaken for a leather collar, if it weren’t for a large, deep-set ring at the centre. If it were to go around Jon’s neck, the steel ring would press in to his throat uncomfortably, but that’s all Theon can think of that might cause Jon harm. Deep down, he knows has to be something worse. 

Jon must be thinking so as well. His bandaged hands tighten into fists.

Littlefinger quirks an eyebrow. “No? Best if I show you then.”

He blocks Jon from Theon’s view, and soon after there’s scuffling. Jon’s shouted objection quickly changes into something high and panicked, and when Littlefinger steps away, Jon’s head is hanging, curls obscuring his face.

“None of that. Show Lord Bolton.”

Littlefinger tips Jon’s head back and Theon sucks in a breath, because _oh gods_ , it’s terrible and gorgeous in equal measure. The metal ring has been forced between Jon’s teeth, held in place by the strip of leather fastened at the back of his head, and it holds his mouth open that way, making his lips form a perfect ‘O.’ It’s not so wide as to distort his face, Theon realises bleakly; Jon’s as achingly pretty as ever. They wouldn’t want him any other way.  _But wide enough to—_

Theon’s gorge rises.

“Oh my. That’s ingenious.” Ramsay traces Jon’s mouth, and Jon sinks back into the arms of the guards, as if seeking protection. “I could put anything in there.”

Jon makes a strange whining sound at Ramsay’s words, and looking at him, Theon can see how deeply he feels this humiliation. For all Jon’s suffered, he’s never seen him undone by something so simple. Jon’s lost all colour save for the pink of his mouth, and his eyes are huge and pleading. It could be fear or shame that’s set his muscles quivering – probably both – and his shoulders are hunched and tense.

“You don’t like it, do you,” Littlefinger observes. “Most don’t. It’s remarkable really, how effective this object is. It can subdue even the most disobedient whore. Something about it truly cuts to the essence of one’s vulnerability. See how he trembles, Lord Bolton? The fear in his eyes? He knows exactly what this means for him; how helpless it renders him. It’s stripped him of everything. His ability to make a coherent protest. His ability to fight back with his teeth. And most importantly, his ability to close his mouth to anything unwanted.”

Littlefinger cups the back of Jon’s neck. “It’s worse than you can imagine, you know. You’d be surprised at what some men find arousing. What they’ll want to force into that pretty mouth of yours. Their cocks of course. Wine. Food.  _Piss._  How would you like that, boy? Having a man relieve himself in you? Having to swallow it?”

Jon appears to be on the verge of fainting. Theon feels the same. Dizziness forces him reach out to steady himself by gripping the mantelpiece.

“Of course, there are rules,” Littlefinger continues. “There are some things I forbid. Vomit. Excrement. Sharing blood. All of them cause disease that spreads through the brothel like wildfire. Other than that,” he shrugs, “I can accommodate most requests.”

He studies Jon’s face. “Do you want me to take it out?”

Jon closes his eyes and nods.  

“Will you do whatever I ask? Will you swear to obey?” 

This time Jon’s nod is accompanied by a choked sob.

“Good. Because if you fail to follow commands from now on, you’ll be wearing it permanently.”

As soon as the ring is removed, Jon doubles over, retching. Littlefinger sends a knowing look to Ramsay.

“I’m impressed, Lord Baelish. I’ll admit, I’d quite like to see that on him again. What other treasures do you have in that box?”

“Fairly standard things I’m afraid. The rest are waiting for him at his future home.”

“Oh well,” Ramsay says, “All the more reason to pay him a visit there. I always wanted to see King’s Landing. I admire your audacity by the way. Taking him to the capital. Are you sure he won’t be discovered?”

“It will be easier for me to watch over him there, my lord. I intend to be in King’s Landing for a long time. And this particular establishment exists on the very principle of discretion. The men who frequent it cannot afford to be found out. They may whisper amongst themselves about the new boy, but they’ll not know of his identity. And even if they did, I doubt they’d feel any sympathy. In fact, I suspect, for many, it would only make him more tempting.”

Ramsay beams. “Well, Snow, it sounds like you’re in for quite the adventure. And as your warden, I feel like it would be neglectful of me to send one of my beloved northmen into the lions’ den unprepared. I think you should try something new. My men have been too afraid to do it so far,” he says to Littlefinger. “He’s been too unpredictable. Perhaps now is the time. While your lesson is fresh in the bastard’s mind.”

Littlefinger inclines his head. “I agree. Let’s see how he fares.”

They can only mean one thing. Jon seems to figure it out a moment later, his body snapping rigid. When he’s forced to his knees, he presses his palms against Ramsay’s thighs, trying to push him away.

“No,” Ramsay cautions. “That’s not how this works. No hands. No tricks. No biting. Remember Lord Baelish's contraption. And your sister.”

The sound that comes from Jon is low and wordless. His hands begin to shake. Slowly, he moves them, anchoring himself to the wooden base of the bed behind him with a white knuckled grip. Theon thinks if he was to reach out to Jon, he’d be able to feel the anguish that has settled over him, a black and heavy mantle.

Ramsay frees his cock, guiding it towards Jon’s mouth. The full lips part.

Theon knows the feel of Jon’s mouth on him. Jon had been skilled, his clever tongue homing in on all of Theon’s secret places, drawing pleasure from him in a way Theon had never thought possible. Theon had given in to the fantasy, allowing himself to believe that Jon thought Theon’s mutilation a gift; something to be worshipped rather than hidden. Even in the throes of lust, however, Theon had known that wasn’t true. Jon had been imagining he was with a woman. He’d slipped into the past, into memory of his old lover.

This is different. Jon can’t possibly distance himself from this. And watching it now – _seven hells,_ it’s like reliving it. A violation worse than any other, to Theon’s mind, too close to escape to any imagined sanctuary. Everything about it is an overwhelming nightmare: the loss of air; the smell of sweat; the taste of another’s flesh and fluid. The sight of the one taking their callously stolen pleasure, gazing down with hunger.

Jon tries to avoid the last. With a muffled moan, he squeezes his eyes shut.

 _He won’t let you do that. He never does._

Ramsay fists Jon’s hair and the words come, a precise echo of Theon’s memory.

“Look at me, pet.” 

Jon obeys, staring up mutely. “There,” Ramsay purrs, “that’s better. I do wish you could see yourself. Pretty eyes big and begging. I can’t tell if you’re pleading with me to stop or urging me to go on. And you can’t say which it is. Not with my cock filling your lovely mouth.” Ramsay shoves in further, smiling at the distressed sound Jon makes. Theon can tell it’s a struggle, but Jon’s eyes stay open. “Oh, you are a quick study,” Ramsay commends him. “We’ll make a whore of you yet.”

Ramsay pulls on Jon’s hair to angle his head back, preparing to thrust in to Jon’s extended throat. Theon’s vision blurs with tears. He drops his head.

_I can’t. I can’t watch._

Hearing it is no better. Jon’s frantic grunts are sickening, and Littlefinger’s instructions, vile. _Stop pulling away. Use your tongue. Suck._  At one point, Ramsay must withdraw, because Jon’s ragged gasps fill Theon’s ears. The slither of Littlefinger’s voice is close behind.

“Try harder, Jon Snow. Or you’ll discover what happens to whores who disappoint me. I’ll have you tied in place for days, on display and free for all to use. Men will line up to do it, taking you two at a time, one raping your mouth and the other your arse, again and again and again. You’ll be speared at both ends day and night, unable to move or speak. Think about that. Think about how much pain you’d be in. Think about what it would be like, to be treated as if you were nothing but holes for fucking. A mindless, helpless object of desire. I’ve had a few girls who needed to this sort of…education, shall we say? Not many, I’ll grant you. Most of my girls choose to work for me, and understand what that work entails. And those who are volunteered – Lady Poole and her daughter Jeyne, for example – they become accustomed to their new lives quickly. They knew it was better that way.”

Theon doesn't know why Littlefinger stops there, not mentioning that Jeyne is here in Winterfell, brought north from King’s Landing along with his assistant. _Maybe he's holding off telling Jon for later. For some other purpose._ Theon wishes he was ignorant of it too. Theon remembered Jeyne as a sweet child, her dimpled cheeks and shy smiles endearing her to all. The woman Theon saw in the courtyard two days past was unrecognisable. Thin and blank-eyed, as ruined as the sky coloured gown she wore. As girls, she and Sansa would play at being ladies, perfecting their graces and practicing their courtly manners. They couldn’t have dreamed how terrible their womanhood would be.

Theon wonders if Euron’s plan to destroy Westeros isn’t as mad as he once believed.

_What is there in this world that’s worth saving?_

Jon’s response must convince Littlefinger that the warning has struck home, for, from the faint sounds Jon makes, the assault has begun anew. Mercifully, Ramsay reaches his peak sooner than Theon expects. Jon’s stifled cries become distraught gagging noises, signaling that Ramsay is speeding up, driving in too far and too fast.

_Jon’s eyes will be watering. He’ll be fighting for air._

Ramsay groans, long and loud, announcing his release.

_I’m sorry Jon._

“Reek!”

The command pulls him to attention. He jerks his head up.

“Reek! A towel.”

Theon hurries to kneel in front of Ramsay, sparing a quick look at Jon. He instantly wishes he hadn’t. Jon is quiet, his lashes wet and clumped around unfocused eyes. Blood marks a split in his lower lip, and when he brings his hands down to his lap, Theon sees that his fingers, too, are bloody from clawing at the bedframe.

The worst indignity of all is the evidence of the defilement clinging to the corner of Jon’s mouth. He seems unaware of it, but it’s a mercy that doesn’t last. Littlefinger leans down to wipe it away, his fingers firm on Jon’s jaw, and holds the smeared cloth up in front of Jon’s captive face.

“Next time,” he drawls, “make sure to swallow all of it.” 

Jon’s vacant gaze sharpens. He wrenches his head from Littlefinger’s grasp and scrubs his arm across his mouth.

“How would you judge the experience, Lord Bolton?” Littlefinger asks over his shoulder. “Do you think he has potential?”

“Oh yes. He needs practice, of course. My Reek could certainly teach him a few things. But he has a natural talent for it. I knew he would.”

Littlefinger taps his chin. “I’ve half a mind to call Satin up from Oldtown to tutor him. He’s one of my best. They are remarkably alike too: same hair, same skin, same eyes. Which might present a problem. Satin’s greatest love is his own reflection. He’d be delighted to find a living mirror of himself. No matter. It’s a start at least. Do you hear that Jon Snow? _It’s just a start._ ”

Jon climbs to his feet. He locks eyes with Littlefinger, glare unwavering. Littlefinger merely smiles and motions to his assistant to collect his things.

“You’re going to be very popular, Jon Snow,” he says as he leaves. “I think this is going to be a very profitable venture.

“Very profitable indeed.”

 

*****

 

Theon’s lady mother is a silhouette at the window, and for a moment, he allows himself to pretend she is as she used to be: a youthful woman, shining with vitality and good humour. As he nears, though, he can make out the broad streaks of white in her braid and the wrinkles that make her seem older than her true age. She is birdlike and frail, her posture hunched. She barely eats, her maidservants have told him, and it shows. The ridges of her bones tent her papery skin.

She frowns at him. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, mother. Theon. Your son.” 

Her eyes cloud with confusion. “Theon is just a child. You’re a man grown. You can’t be…” She brightens. “Oh, of course! Of course, come, my son. Please forgive your old mother. My vision fades as evening draws near. Come.” She places a dry kiss on his cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you. It is late!”

“I’m sorry mother. I got caught up with my duties.”

She musses his hair. “Of course. You are Lord Bolton’s right-hand man.” The proud way she repeats the lie he has told her makes him wince. “I should not expect to have you all to myself. But I dolook forward to your visits. Winterfell is so dreary, Theon. I don’t know how you stand it. So far from the sea! And some nights I feel Lady Stark’s presence haunting these halls. Were her remains returned here?”

“No. They weren’t.”

He doesn’t add that the Freys would never have allowed her that dignity. That they had cast her in the river to for the fish to feed upon _._ By now, she’d be reduced to bones, some buried under the silt or tangled amongst the river weeds, others washing up on the banks for the curious to find. Scattered, like her children. Like the fragments of her own house.

“Such a tragedy,” Alannys murmurs. “Your father made the Starks our enemies, but Lady Catelyn took good care of you. No one deserved the end she met. Still, it’s probably for the best that they killed her too. I can’t imagine having to live if any of my sons had died.”

_They are dead mother. Dead and gone. Your two oldest sons, and perhaps your youngest too._

Lady Alannys mistakes his silence. “Here my son. I know you feel guilty for turning on the Starks, but this alliance with the Boltons is a good one – and temporary. It renders them deaf and blind to our plans. The Boltons know your brothers are coming. They don’t know they bring an  _army_  with them. It’s a very clever plan, my darling boy. You always were the cleverest. You and Asha.”

The compliment warms him, even if it’s part of her fantasy. “Thank you, mother.”

She settles in a chair by the hearth, beckoning Theon to do the same.

“Do you think of it, sometimes, my son? How different your life could have been?” 

Alarm thickens his tongue. _What does she know?_

“I – I, you mean if I hadn’t met Ramsay?”

“No, my darling. If you hadn’t come here to Winterfell. Or if you had, but Eddard Stark wasn’t its Lord.” She closes a bony hand over his. “I know you must have loved him. Balon was not a tender man. It’s understandable that you came to wish Lord Stark was your own blood. I do not think ill of you for it.”

“Oh. I… yes. Some days—some days I did wish I was his son.” _All the days, and still._ “How did you know?”

“Your letters. You spoke of him so highly. I wonder if it would have been so if Brandon Stark had not died. He was a different man from Eddard in every way. Perhaps you mightn’t have found him so kind. He had little time for children. Brandon was brash and full of life. Half the women in the north were in love with him, if you believe the tales.” She flashes him a wicked grin. “He was indeed a very handsome man. I wouldn’t have minded being his salt-wife.”

Theon gawps. This is a woman he hasn’t seen before. “Mother!”

“Oh hush, Theon. I was young once too. You never met Brandon. I did. And I never forget a face.”

 _Yes, you do, mother_.  _You only remember old ones. Not the new ones. Not mine._  

He doesn’t give voice to it. She’s happy in her memories. He wants her to stay in them. “I didn’t know you’d met any of the Starks.”

“Yes, I did!” she enthuses. “Oh, it was such an exciting time. Your grandfather Quellon loved the mainlanders. He travelled often, from Dorne to the Crownlands and back. He invited the other great houses to Pyke too. Your father and his brothers couldn’t stand it, naturally, but we ladies had fun. Your grandfather made many matches between ironborn and mainland houses. _Good_ matches. He had quite the gift for it. Although I must say, his idea to betroth Euron to Lyanna Stark was one of his wilder ideas.”

Theon chokes on his own spit. His mother laughs heartily. It’s a wonderful sound.

“That’s exactly what Rickard Stark did when Quellon suggested it at the feast! My cousin Barra had been wed to a Karstark that day, and Lord Stark brought his oldest son and his daughter with him to the celebration. Euron wasn’t there, of course – he was out at sea - but his reputation was no secret. If it had been any other Greyjoy besides your grandfather, I think Brandon Stark would have drawn his sword, thinking the very suggestion was an insult to his sister’s honour. Fortunately, Quellon was known as a straightforward man, so the proposal was simply declined with grace. You should have seen Lady Lyanna’s face! Do you know, I think she might have given Euron more trouble than anyone could have guessed.”

 _Then she would have died even sooner._ This too, Theon leaves unsaid.

Alannys hums dreamily and pulls on her braid like a young girl. “Oh Brandon. What a man he was. What a shame he was taken so young. Lyanna too. She was a force of nature that one - wild and brave. That was the thing that brought men under her spell. Beauty is common. Her spirit was not. Robert Baratheon had no claim to any throne – not then – and yet he’d set a jeweler to make a circlet of silver and white sapphires, fashioned in the shape of delicate spires of ice. A winter crown for his winter princess.”

Her childlike wistfulness evaporates, anger descending in its place.

“He never had the chance to give it to her. Rhaegar gave her a different crown: one of blue winter roses. It may as well have been thorns for all the blood that came in its wake.” Her lips curl with disdain. “They spoke of him as a hero, once; a paragon of manhood.  _Lies_. All lies. He was no man. He humiliated Queen Elia at Harrenhal. I can’t begin to imagine her pain. What man would hurt the mother of his children in such a way? What man could be so cruel to his own wife?”

The image of Sansa sobbing beneath Ramsay is never far from Theon’s mind. “Too many, mother.”

“Yes, my son,” she agrees sadly. “Too many. The Old Way makes women property to take, and here in the mainland it is no better. Some believe a woman’s place is to be quiet and dutiful. To endure leers and wandering hands; to bear whatever justice her husband gives her. Every swing of a hip and turn of an ankle: any movement she makes is an invitation, as if the mere act of existing is a deliberate tease. I pity them. Whatever your father’s faults, he never treated me so.”

She springs up abruptly, abandoning Theon’s hand to rush to the window. “Look there, Theon,” she urges. “Look at the sunset.”

“Yes, mother. It’s very…nice.”

“No, Theon. Look again. Do you not see? The sky is wrong for winter. My handmaidens tell of the storm in Cerwyn. It must be an evil thing. Unnatural.” She grows frightened. “Do you think the Storm God seeks to waylay Rodrik and Maron? They are already so late.” 

A knock on the door saves him from answering with yet another lie.

“Lady Greyjoy!” Ramsay sing-songs. “How are you this evening? Are you ready for our walk?”

Lady Alannys squeezes Theon’s arm. “Oh, of course, Lord Bolton,” she replies, flustered. “Of course. I’d quite forgotten the time!” She extends a hand for Ramsay to press his lips to her knuckles.

A sudden, cold sweat forms on Theon's brow. “You— you walk together?”

“Indeed we do,” Ramsay replies. “A daily constitutional is quite vital for one’s health. Your mother’s well-being is of greatest important to me, as you know, so I’ve taken it upon myself to escort her around the grounds each evening. Sometimes Lord Baelish accompanies us as well. Though not tonight, I’m afraid.” Ramsay offers Lady Alannys his elbow. “I think we’ll go somewhere new, my dear. Do you know Jon Snow?”

“Ned Stark’s bastard? I never knew him. What of him, Lord Bolton?”

“Oh! Has your son not told you? He’s at Winterfell! I thought you’d like to meet him. Your son is very close with him. As am I.”

Lady Alannys hesitates. “I - I suppose I should like to meet a friend of Theon’s.”

“Wonderful! You’ll join us, of course, _Theon_. Come along.”

His real name sounds so foreign coming from Ramsay. False and ugly. So is the tale he's spun for Theon's mother. This won’t be a casual visitation; Theon knows Ramsay too well. It’s a trick, one Theon’s powerless to thwart. He trails after them, feet heavy. What else can he do? _Follow, don’t lead. People suffer when you try._ Ahead, the train of his mother’s grey gown hushes on the stairs. Soon her figure is lost to him, dissolving into the surrounding stone.

He almost runs into her at the open chamber door. She’s frozen there, mouth agape. Theon screws up his courage to enter, gently moving her aside.

It’s worse than he imagined. Jon is bound to the bedposts, arms spread high and wide, his feet barely grazing the floor. Sweat gives his skin a silvery gleam, a stark contrast to the livid lines painting his chest, belly and thighs. A whip discarded on the bed behind him must be the cause of the wounds. Jon’s head has fallen to his chest, face covered by the inky curtain of his hair, but he is breathing at least. The swell of his ribcage expands and contracts at a rapid pace.

Lady Alannys’ paralysis breaks. She shrieks and covers her face with her hands.

Ramsay sniggers. “Oh dear! I suppose I should have warned you. Yes, here he is in all his glory, my Lady: the Bastard of Winterfell. I know he’s slightly worse for wear right now, but don’t worry yourself. These marks won’t last. Lord Baelish has been teaching me some new skills. It’s all in the wrist, apparently. And these will fade in a few days once treated with one of Qyburn’s special salves.”

Theon gathers his mother in his arms. Her fearful sobs trigger a tide of fury in him that he battles to restrain. Too soon, Ramsay pulls her from his embrace and snakes an arm around her shoulders.

“There, there, my Lady. Is it the bastard’s nakedness that offends you? Come now, you must have seen plenty of that in your time. I hear ironborn women are loose as whores.” Ramsay chuckles at the soft growl that slips past Theon’s grit teeth. “Your son seeks to protect your innocence. Come, it’s not so bad. At least Jon Snow _has_ a cock. Your poor boy doesn’t. I took it from him and sent it to your Lord husband as a gift.”

“No, Ramsay.” Desperation cracks his voice. “Please, don’t.”

“Ramsay, is it now? I think you’ve quite forgotten yourself, Reek. I’ll take the time to refresh your memory later.” He nuzzles Lady Alannys’ ear. “It’s true, my lady. You’ve lost a son, although you shouldn’t think of it like that. Think of it as gaining a daughter. Well, of a kind. Eunuch is the proper term I believe.” He sends Theon a mocking leer. “No, that isn’t quite right either. I did leave him with one of his balls. He’s never thanked me for that kindness, but it’s made him so much more fun to play with.”

“Theon? Theon, what is this man talking about?”

“Mother,” Theon begins. He can’t find the words.

“My son,” she whispers. She moves to him, taking his hands in hers, massaging the scarred skin where fingers used to be. Her face crumples. “How did I not notice before? Oh my boy. My sweet boy. He’s telling the truth, isn’t he? About what he did to you. I’m so sorry, my dearest. He never told me. Your father. He never said.”

“To be fair, my lady,” Ramsay interjects, “you wouldn’t have remembered if he did.” He collects the whip from the bed. It’s long, whippet thin, and when Jon hears its crack, his belly muscles tense into a hard shield. “You don’t even remember the deaths of your oldest sons.”

Lady Alannys’ fingers clamp down around his hand like a vice. “What? What are you talking about?”

“No, Ramsay,” Theon starts. He’ll pay more than twice over for the use of the name later. “Please, Ramsay, don’t—”

“Don’t what? Tell her the truth? That Rodrik and Maron have been dead for years? I always found history lessons tedious, so remind me, Theon, when was the Greyjoy rebellion? No, wait a minute, now I remember. It was seven – no, eight years after Robert’s rebellion ended, correct? Which was 281 AC. So, 289 to now…” He makes a show of counting on his fingers. “That makes it fourteen years. Fourteen years your sons have been dead, Lady Greyjoy! You really ought to have come to terms with it by now.”

Theon pulls his mother to him. She is stiff in his arms. “No, mother. Don’t listen to him. He’s lying.”

“I’m not the liar here,” Ramsay insists. “You are. And the rest of your family, and everyone else who enabled her fantasy. Such a cruel thing to do. I’ve been doing my best to cure her of her madness. I remind her of it every night, you know, when we take our walks together. About her dead sons. About you. It never seems to stick.” He sighs dramatically. “Each night, I have to tell her the whole story all over again. And every time, she gets so very upset. I don’t think I’m getting anywhere, really, but I’ll keep going. It’s the right thing to do.”

_Every night. He’s been doing this to her every night._

It’s unthinkable. Far crueler a torture than Theon could have dreamed. A keening sound pierces the air. Theon barely recognizes the voice as his own. His mother joins him, her wail low and mournful. Together they sink to floor, giving voice to their separate griefs. Theon clings to her for longer than he should. Even in sorrow, her embrace takes him back to his boyhood, when he felt safe. He wants to stay with her like this forever. It’s not to be. He’s startled by his mother jolting in his arms, as if woken rudely from sleep.

“Mother. Mother! It’s alright. I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”

_She’s right to be. You can’t protect her. You couldn’t even save her from this._

A fierce growl comes from the frail thing in his arms. “I do not fear, Theon. _I am ironborn_.”

She unfurls before him, her back straightening. Theon’s heart leaps in his chest. Her eyes…they’re different. Sharp. _Knowing._ She stands, smooths her skirts, and offers him her hand.

_Mother._

This is her, truly, at last. The one who offered him warmth and security; the one who held him close when he was frightened, or sad, or lonely. The one who sung him to sleep at night, and shook him gently awake in the morning, never leaving the task to a servant. The one who protected him. The one who loved him. The _only_ one.

Theon takes her hand and rises to stand beside her, gulping down a sob.

Lady Alannys Greyjoy regards Ramsay coldly. “You will die for what you’ve done to my son, _bastard_. You will be put down like the rabid dog you are.”

Ramsay toys with the whip, flicking it here and there around him. “You say so every night. And yet, here I am.”

“She’s right,” Jon adds quietly. “One way or another, you’ll meet your end. And soon.”

Ramsay strikes out like a snake, lashing Jon low across his hips. The noise Jon makes is halfway between a grunt and a scream, quickly bitten off. He pants, flexing his fingers around the ropes binding him and sends a glare to Ramsay that is so full of hatred, Theon can feel the icy fury of it from where he stands. It earns him another lash, and this time, by what Theon can only believe is the power of sheer bloody-mindedness, Jon makes no sound at all.

Ramsay angrily readies his arm to deliver another strike, ignoring Lady Alannys’ gasp. His jaw drops in astonishment at the flash of movement that shoulders him aside. Theon’s mother has dashed forward and is in front of Jon in a heartbeat, carefully pushing his hair back and cupping his face.

"Look at me, child," she urges.   
  
He does, black eyes wide, and Lady Alannys releases him as if burned. “Could it be?” She withdraws, raising a quivering hand to her mouth. “The Storm Lord take us all! It _is_. _Those fools._ All of them - how could they not have seen?  _That face._ ” She slews back to Theon. “Your uncle,” she demands. “Does he know? Does the Crow’s Eye know?”

“Mother?”

She rushes to him, clawing at his tunic. “He mustn’t find out. Not him. You must be the one.”

“Mother,” he repeats stupidly. “I don’t—“

“Theon, my last son! Listen to me. I don’t know how long I will be in my right mind. Please, _listen._ I cannot tell you all. Not here. But know this: it’s not too late. You and Asha could rule the ironborn and make peace with the mainland, like your grandfather. You can do it if you ally with him now.”

“Him? Ramsay?”

“Hear me!” His mother’s words are tumbling too fast. She’s fraying at the edges, he can tell. Holding on to her wits by a thread. “Jon Snow is fading. I see it in his eyes. Like Nagga. Do you remember the tale I told you? When the great dragon was slain, her spine formed steps from the shore up to the cliffs of Pyke. They’re gone, now, Theon. Reshaped and beaten down by the crash of ocean waves until only sand remained. Nagga was our enemy. This one is not. Help him, my son.”

“I don’t understand,” Theon begs. “What are you saying?”

She’s frantic. Unhearing. “If only we’d known! _That half-wit of a man!_ If he’d shared it with someone – anyone - things could have been different. There would have been no war. No need for bloodshed. If only he’d made another choice!”

“Who are you talking about? Who made a choice?”

“Hush, Theon, and listen! Even the lightest leaf causes a ripple when it falls onto the water, my son. Quellon died in that war. If he lived, the rebellion wouldn’t have happened. Your brothers. They mightn’t have…” Her eyes grow bright with tears. “ _My sons!_ _Oh, my sons!”_

A crack surprises them both. Jon hisses with the blow, his nipples pricking with blood.

Ramsay coils the whip up. “As interesting as your rambling is, Lady Greyjoy, I’m afraid it’s growing late. And I’m not quite finished with my bastard. Unless, you’d like to stay and watch?” His mangled eye glints. “I intend to rape him, in case that isn’t clear already. Do you know, I’ve done it so many times, and I haven’t tired of it yet? None of my men have. He has a feral fire in him that keeps him interesting. It makes him fight, every single time. Your boy though - my Reek – he’s different. He doesn’t fight me. And I don’t share him with _anyone_.”

“You repulsive piece of _filth_ ,” Theon’s mother shoots back. “My son is the prince of the Iron Islands. You will never take that from him. And you think your pathetic games are clever? They are not. That man you’ve placed your trust in – Baelish – he is no friend to you. I’ve listened to the pair of you plotting, when you thought me in a deranged state. He wants Sansa Stark for himself. He wants the Iron Throne. How you’ve been blind to his treachery, I cannot fathom. He is as transparent as glass.”

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Ramsay replies. “Sowing the seeds of discontent and suspicion. Which is odd, come to think of it. What are your house words again? _We Do Not Sow._ Try heeding them. I’ve known Lord Baelish for more than a year. You have met him three times at most. What he and I have is a mutually beneficial arrangement. If he wants the Iron Throne, so be it. As for Sansa – no. It was Catelyn Stark he loved.”

“Imbecile. You... You’re a…” Lady Alannys falters, her mouth working noiselessly.

“Do go on, Lady Greyjoy,” Ramsay says. “You were so passionate a moment ago. I’m dying to hear what comes next."

“I— I don’t know. I don’t know what I was saying.”

Ramsay tuts. “Is the madness coming back already? Strange. She’s usually lucid for longer than that, and the lunacy returns more gradually too. I think you must have upset her, Reek. I don’t think I’ll let you see her for a while. It’s not good for her.”

“No. Please!” It’s a futile appeal. He can see in Ramsay’s eyes that it’s no empty threat.

Lady Alannys plucks at her skirt. “Why am I wearing this awful gown? This colour is dreadful on me.”

Ramsay takes her arm. “No it doesn’t, my Lady. You look quite lovely, as always.” He winks at Theon. “That was a more entertaining performance than most nights. Did you follow any of that, Reek? The spines of monsters and talk of you ruling the Islands? I couldn’t.”

Theon has eyes only for his mother. Her mouth has fallen slack, and the spark in her eyes has departed.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“Mother,” Theon whispers. “It’s me, Theon.”

It’s pointless.

She is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1). You might notice I use the name Night's King, rather than "Night King." The former is from the books, the latter from the show. For reasons I can't recall, I made a decision way back in an earlier chapter to go with the book name. 
> 
> 2). I have way too much fun with Qyburn, I know. His morbid medical experiments are a constant source of delight to me. So that hair and beard trim doesn't mean anything. I just wanted to show Qyburn being his usual weird self. Also Jon would have been WAY overdue for a haircut at this point. Think of it as now being between his S5 lion's mane and his chic post-resurrection style in S6 (Mel did a great job there, don't you think?).
> 
> 3). Lady Alannys is a book only character, and was indeed beset by madness after the death of her two oldest sons. I've obviously embellished this to my own ends. Just because I could.


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